UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT   LOS  ANGELES 


ROBERT  ERNEST  COWAN 


STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 


BY 


GEORGE  A.  WAGGONER 


SALEM,  OREGON: 

STATESMAN  PUBLISHING  CO. 

1905 


PS 
2, 


COPYRIGHTED 

BY  GEO.  A.  WAGGONER 

DECEMBER     29,   1904 


836305 


TO  THE  PIONEERS 
OF    OREGON 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

Oregon's  Pioneers  ylQY'.Pi^.lfe^Bi'?.^!1!^       5 

yjx 

Stories  of  Old  Oregon 7 

II. 
A  Test  of  Courage 23 

III. 
Adventures  in  the  Mines 57 

IV. 
Adventures  in  the  Mines 87 

V. 
Adventures  in  the  Mines 107 

VI. 
Adventures  in  the  Mines 127 

VII. 

How  Captain  Dobbins  Was  Promoted 145 

VIII. 
How  Captain  Dobbins  Was  Promoted 169 

IX. 
A  Legend  of  Wallowa  Lake 191 


CONTENTS— CONTINUED. 

X. 

Ned  Leach's  Story 201 

XI. 
Jack  Hart's  Encounter  with  Road  Agents 223 

XII. 
Was  It  Luck  or  Providence 243 

XIII. 
Buckskin's  Fight  with  the  Wolves 261 

XIV. 
A  Chance  Meeting  of  Old  Friends 275 

XV. 
Dandy  Jim .   281 


(By  courtesy  of  O.  R.  &  N.) 
MT.  HOOD,  OREGON. 


Oregon's  Pioneers. 

How  shall  a  tale  of  the  West  be  told? 

Who  will  write  it  in  letters  of  gold? 

Where  is  the  one  whose  magic  pen 

Shall  make  its  heroes  live  again? 

Heroes  who  made  a  desert  sod, 

Touched  as  if  by  Aaron's  rod, 

Blossom  o'er  its  wide  domain 

With  flowers,  fruit,  and  golden  grain. 

Patriots  who  watch  and  ward  did  keep 

While  all  the  nation  was  asleep; 

Till  every  hill  and  every  vale 

Held  touching,  tragic,  thrilling  tale; 

And  western  soil,  from  flood  to  flood, 

Was  enriched  with  patriot  blood. 

Where  their  campfire  smoke  has  curled, 

There  our  banner  was  unfurled; 

While  their  cabins  rose  in  air, 

hhey  were  building  house  more  fair. 

Irom  Missouri's  tawny  flood, 

Vhere  the  painted  savage  stood, 

T\  Pacific's  golden  gate, 

Tley  were  building  house  of  state. 

Tr\e  of  hand  and  heart  and  eye, 

Thir  were  building  to  the  sky. 

Wei  they  builded;  'neath  their  domes 

State  and  empires  h»^°  f^eir  homes. 


Stories  of  Old  Oregon. 


i. 


Of  all  the  emigrations  from  the  Atlantic  to 
the  Pacific  coast,  that  of  1852  was  the  largest. 
Fifty  thousand  people  crossed  the  Missouri  river  in 
that  year,  bound  for  Oregon  and  California.  The 
discovery  of  gold  in  the  latter,  and  marvellous  stories 
of  the  mild  climate  and  rich  soil  in  the  former,  in- 
duced these  people  to  brave  all  dangers  and  go  in 
search  of  the  mythical  Garden  Spot  of  the  World. 
Father,  mother,  brothers,  sisters,  seven  in  all,  our 
family  started  from  Winchester,  Van  Buren  county, 
Iowa,  to  join  that  daring  crowd  in  its  long  journey 
across  the  plains. 

On  the  21st  day  of  April  we  crossed  the  Mis- 
souri at  Council  Bluffs,  and  with  our  teams  took 
up  our  march  across  the  desert.  I  was  then  10  years 
of  age,  brother  Thomas  was  four  years  older,  and 
Byrd  three  years  younger  than  I;  sister  Emily  was 
a  little  tot  of  5  years,  and  Frances  a  young  woman 
of  18.  We  had  two  teams  of  four  yoke  of  oxen  each, 


8  STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

a  couple  of  horses,  and  two  cows.  I  was  too  young 
to  realize  the  dangers  or  responsibilities  of  our 
undertaking,  and  with  my  younger  brother  and 
sister,  might  be  said  to  be  the  irresponsibles  of  the 
family.  I  had  little  to  do  but  ride  one  of  the  horses 
and  drive  the  cows. 

I  should  have  admitted  that  there  was  one 
danger  that  I  was  most  keenly  alive  to.  I  was 
mortally  afraid  of  Indians.  My  father,  a  Ken- 
tuckian,  had  told  so  many  hair-raising  stories  of  the 
atrocious  conduct  of  the  red  men  on  the  borders 
of  Kentucky,  when  he  was  a  boy,  that  my  only  ideal 
of  an  Indian  was  that  of  a  monster  seeking  for  little 
boys  with  a  tomahawk  and  scalping  knife  in  his 
hand.  We  met  our  first  Indians  at  Council  Bluffs. 
To  speak  truthfully  I  cannot  say  that  I  met  them  at 
all,  for  I  dived  into  a  neighboring  brush  patch  the 
moment  I  saw  them  coming.  I  did  not  even  wait 
to  announce  their  approach.  I  had  a  peep  at  them, 
however.  They  were  a  couple  of  young  Pawnees, 
with  red  blankets  around  their  shoulders  and  ver- 
million  paint  on  their  faces.  They  presented  to 
mother  a  paper  addressed  to  whom  it  might  con- 
cern, stating  that  they  were  good  Indians,  and  would 
probably  be  hungry,  and  that  it  was  best  to  feed 
them  to  insure  a  safe  passage  through  their  country. 
Of  course,  they  were  fed.  During  the  next  few  days 


STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON  9 

we  saw  many  of  them,  and  I  soon  lost  my  fear  of 
them  and  became  greatly  interested  in  their  strange 
manners  and  odd  costumes. 

We  traveled  about  twenty  miles  a  day,  and 
found  good  camping  places  and  abundant  grass  for 
our  stock.  We  had  to  stand  guard  every  night  to 
prevent  the  stock  being  stolen,  as  there  were  white 
as  well  as  red  rascals  on  the  plains.  As  the  great 
American  desert,  over  which  we  passed,  has  since 
that  time  been  so  thoroughly  explored  and  widely 
known;  has,  in  fact,  become  states  and  territories 
with  numerous  thriving  cities  and  profitable  enter- 
prises. I  shall  not  attempt  to  mention  the  streams, 
valleys  and  mountains  we  crossed,  or  to  give  what 
would  be  at  this  time  a  tedious  detailed  account  of 
our  journey.  Moreover,  my  memory  holds  no  such 
recollection ;  I  can  recall  only  such  incidents  as  made 
the  deepest  impression  on  my  mind  at  the  time. 

Our  route  was  well  marked.  We  simply  fol- 
lowed the  trail  of  pioneers  more  daring  than  we, 
who  had  crossed  years  before.  It  was  a  sight  to 
see  the  long  line  of  white  covered  wagons  wending 
their  way.  For  more  than  half  the  journey  we  were 
seldom  out  of  sight  of  other  trains,  either  before  or 
behind  us.  Our  way  lay  up  the  north  side  of  the 
Platte  river.  We  camped  one  day  and  crossed  the 
river  to  see  Fort  Laramie,  at  the  mouth  of  the  Lara- 


10  STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

mie  river.  The  buildings  were  of  adobe,  and  with 
those  of  Fort  Hall,  of  like  construction,  were  all  the 
houses  we  saw  until  we  reached  the  Cascades,  on 
the  Columbia  river,  a  distance  of  nearly  2,000  miles. 
A  day's  journey  from  Laramie,  we  saw  our  first 
buffalo.  During  the  forenoon,  hunters  had  ridden 
off  to  the  north  to  look  for  antelope.  As  we  cor- 
ralled the  wagons  for  the  night  we  saw  a  great  dust 
storm  approaching;  a  moment  later  there  appeared 
in  front  of  it  the  lowered  heads  of  a  herd  of  buffalo. 
We  could  hear  shots  and  yells  behind  and  knew  the 
hunters  were  driving  the  animals  into  camp.  So 
great  was  their  fright  that  they  did  not  see  the 
camp  until  within  a  hundred  yards  of  it;  scarcely 
could  they  turn  aside  from  the  wagons,  and  one 
actually  struck  a  wagon  in  passing.  Women  and 
children  ran  into  the  wagons,  and  the  men  grabbed 
their  rifles  and  commenced  a  fusilade.  Our  teams 
became  frightened,  and  a  general  stampede  was 
with  difficulty  averted.  Order  was  restored  in  a 
few  moments  and  it  was  found  that  we  had  three 
fine  buffalo,  killed  within  a  hundred  yards  of  camp. 
We  now  had  an  abundance  of  meat  and  three  fine 
robes.  As  we  had  no  means  of  dressing  them,  we 
gave  them  to  some  Indians  who  came  into  camp. 
They  were  warriors  and  did  not  care  to  soil  their 


STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON  11 

hands,  but  sent  some  squaws  for  the  robes  the  next 
morning. 

Throughout  the  whole  length  of  the  Platte  river 
buffalo  were  seen  in  great  numbers;  sometimes  for 
miles  ahead  they  could  be  seen  moving  across  our 
way.  There  were  many  stories  of  buffalo  stamped- 
ing whole  trains,  and  we  were  always  on  the  lookout 
for  them.  Once  we  were  compelled  to  go  into  camp 
early  in  the  forenoon  and  wait  for  them  to  pass  on 
their  way  to  the  river  for  water;  they  were  always 
on  the  gallop,  and  seemed  to  be  in  a  great  hurry  in 
going  or  coming  from  their  feeding  grounds.  An- 
telope, or  prong  horns,  were  quite  common;  jack 
rabbits  and  sage  hens  were  everywhere  along  the 
entire  route. 

On  the  Platte  river,  cholera  broke  out  among 
the  emigrants,  and  was  a  most  terrible  scourge.  Our 
train  was  severely  afflicted  with  this  most  dreadful 
disease.  It  claimed  twenty-two  victims  in  one 
month's  time;  they  were  all  buried  in  the  desert 
without  coffins.  The  delay  thus  caused  brought  our 
train  among  the  hindmost  ones,  and  was  the  cause 
of  much  privation  and  suffering.  Disease  for  both 
man  and  beast  seemed  to  be  in  the  very  air,  and 
gave  a  forcible  contradiction  to  the  theory  that  such 
contagion  is  bred  in  thickly  settled  districts.  There 
was  constant  fear  of  Indians,  and  several  times  the 


12  STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

men  were  all  under  arms  to  repel  what  appeared 
like  an  attack.  Once,  on  Snake  river,  we  had  a  gen- 
uine scare.  Some  Indians  were  in  camp,  and  one 
young  warrior  took  a  fancy  to  my  sister  Frances, 
and  asked  father  how  many  horses  it  would  take  to 
buy  her.  Father  answered,  with  a  laugh,  that  she 
was  worth  ten  spotted  ponies,  as  she  was  a  very 
good  cook  and  had  long,  beautiful  hair,  and  more- 
over, already  had  Indian  moccasins  on  her  feet. 
The  young  lover  took  the  whole  thing  in  earnest 
and  went  away.  An  hour  later  he  returned  with 
a  band  of  spotted  ponies,  and,  reinforced  by  a  dozen 
comrades,  demanded  his  bride.  His  wrath  knew  no 
bounds  when  told  that  father  was  only  joking.  He 
was  a  warrior  of  fame  with  a  battle  name  a  yard 
long,  which  meant  Wolf  in  the  Grass,  and  would 
stand  no  such  foolishness;  he  had  bought  a  wife 
and  was  going  to  have  her,  or  his  people  would  mur- 
der us  all.  He  gave  us  until  sundown  to  decide 
whether  we  were  going  to  treat  him  right  or  not. 
We  soon  found  it  was  no  trifling  matter,  as  during 
the  evening  several  hundred  of  the  red  rascals  came 
into  camp,  and  all  declared  we  should  complete  the 
bargain  and  give  up  the  girl,  or  we  would  all  be 
murdered.  We  saw  they  only  wanted  an  excuse  for 


STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON  13 

attacking  us,  and  all  were  alarmed,  as  the  Indians 
greatly  outnumbered  us. 

So  we  begged  for  more  time  to  consider  the 
matter,  and  to  prepare  the  bride's  mind  for  the 
nuptials,  which  if  we  consented  to  do,  should  take 
place  in  our  camp  with  great  ceremony  and  much 
eating  and  dancing.  This  later  proposal  prevailed, 
and  we  were  given  until  the  next  evening  to  get 
ready  for  the  ceremony.  Time  was  of  much  valm1. 
to  us,  for  during  the  following  day  all  trains  ^hat 
came  in  were  told  of  our  predicament,  and  willingly 
joined  forces  with  us  to  repel  the  advances  of  sis- 
ter's Indian  lover.  The  women  and  children  were 
all  in  tears  most  of  the  time,  and  the  men  looked  pale 
and.  anxious.  The  Indians  saw  their  mistake,  and 
looked  with  great  disfavor  on  the  reinforcements  ve 
were  receiving,  each  one  of  whom  they  tried  to  con- 
vert to  their  side  of  the  question.  When  the  sun 
went  to  rest  behind  the  low  hills,  we  had  fifty-six 
men  under  arms  and  prepared  to  fight.  As  about 
100  warriors,  all  in  war  paint,  rode  up,  they  were 
told  to  stop  outside  the  camp,  while  our  little  army 
stood  with  rifles  in  hand. 

The  young  chief  rode  forward,  and  in  a  loud 
voice,  demanded  his  bride,  on  penalty  of  death  of 
every  man,  woman  and  child  in  the  camp.  Father 
had  been  chafing  sorely  over  his  thoughtless  joke, 


14  STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

and  had  felt  much  more  anxiety  than  he  had  ex- 
pressed, though  he  had  not  believed  the  Indians 
would  persist  as  they  had.  He  was  a  Kentuckian, 
a  large  and  powerful  man,  and  would  have  driven 
the  Indians  from  the  camp  before,  had  not  there 
been  many  lives  besides  his  at  stake.  As  the  In- 
dian concluded  his  threat,  father's  Jacksonian  blood 
flashed  in  his  face;  holding  his  rifle  in  his  right 
hand,  he  sprang  to  the  side  of  the  young  brave,  and 
jerking  him  to  the  ground  with  his  left  hand  he 
gave  him  a  most  unmerciful  kicking  and  drubbing. 
Fifty-five  rifles  were  leveled  from  behind  the 
wagons,  and  as  many  deadly  marksmen  glanced 
along  their  barrels  toward  the  band  of  Indians.  But 
not  an  arrow  flew,  nor  a  shot  was  fired. 

The  Indians,  seeing  that  to  persist  in  their 
demands  was  to  bring  on  a  battle  in  which  their 
bows  and  arrows  would  be  opposed  to  rifles,  gave 
up  the  siege  and  we  moved  on,  though  for  several 
days  we  were  on  the  alert  for  an  attack. 

When  we  came  to  a  stream  too  deep  to  ford, 
and  there  were  many  of  them,  we  unloaded  the 
wagons  and  corked  up  the  wagon  beds  and  used 
them  for  boats  to  cross  in,  swimming  the  horses 
and  cattle.  Horse  teams  were  constantly  passing 
us,  as  they  could  travel  thirty  or  forty  miles  a  day. 
We  met  many  men,  traders  and  trappers,  on  horse- 


STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON  15 

back,  and  these  gave  us  an  opportunity  of  com- 
municating with  friends,  both  before  and  behind 
us.  Another  means  of  informing  those  behind  us 
of  our  progress,  was  to  leave  letters  fastened  to 
sticks,  left  sticking  in  the  ground  by  the  roadside. 
A  very  common  practice  was  to  write  messages  on 
buffalo  skulls  and  shoulder  blades,  found  all  along 
in  great  numbers.  The  broad  forehead,  bleached 
white,  afforded  ample  room  for  a  good  long  letter, 
and  many  a  cordial  greeting  and  even  tender  billet 
doux  was  left  on  these  novel  ivory  tablets.  Alto- 
gether, it  seemed  as  if  we  had  a  system  of  telegraphy 
the  whole  route,  and  nothing  of  importance  hap- 
pened but  what  was  known  to  all.  It  was  wonder- 
ful how  news  would  flash  along  the  whole  line  of 
travel,  from  one  coast  to  the  other. 

When  we  reached  Burnt  river,  game  had'  be- 
come scarce,  or  was  not  to  be  found  near  the  road, 
and  many  persons  were  out  of  provisions  and  were 
compelled  to  kill  and  eat  oxen  that  had  been  work- 
ing hard  for  months.  This  kind  of  food  was  all 
that  many  families  had,  and  much  sickness  ensued. 
Slower  and  slower  the  oxen  dragged  their  weary 
feet,  and  day  by  day  some  gave  out  and  were  left 
behind.  Hundreds  of  wagons,  carts,  and  carriages, 
were  seen  standing  along  the  road,  and  the  dead 
cattle  lay  about  in  such  numbers  that  it  was  diffi- 


16  STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

cult  to  find  a  camping  place  free  from  them.  One 
by  one  our  faithful  oxen  and  cows,  worn  out,  had 
to  be  left  behind,  until  only  one  yoke  remained ;  our 
horses  had  been  stolen  by  the  Snake  Indians.  We 
all  had  to  walk,  and  when  we  came  to  a  steep  hill 
we  put  our  shoulders  to  the  wheels  to  help  the  poor 
oxen. 

In  Powder  River  valley  mother  was  taken  sick 
with  cholera ;  there  was  no  physician  to  be  had,  and 
after  two  days  of  suffering  her  loved  ones  gathered 
about  her  to  take  a  last  farewell.  No  pen  can  por- 
tray that  parting;  no  tones  can  utter  the  anguish 
felt  as  we  buried  her  there  in  that  desert  land,  and 
went  on  our  way  without  her.  But  we  must  go  or 
perish.  When  we  reached  Grand  Ronde  valley  we 
were  entirely  without  food  of  any  kind.  On  the 
site  now  occupied  by  the  city  of  La  Grande  were 
some  thirty  families  camped,  who  were  nearly  as 
destitute  as  ourselves.  What  was  our  joy  to  learn, 
the  evening  we  arrived,  that  some  Oregonians  with 
horse  teams  had  just  come  over  the  Blue  mountains 
to  meet  us  and  assist  us  through  to  the  settlements. 
Some  fat  cattle  were  brought  from  the  Willamette; 
one  was  slaughtered  and  we  were  furnished  with 
plenty  of  beef,  flour,  and  other  necessary  food, 
without  money  and  without  price. 

We   were    informed    that    the    provisions    were 


STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON  17 

sent  by  the  Portland  merchants  and  people  on  hear- 
ing that  the  last  of  the  immigrants  were  suffering 
for  food.  I  have  never  been  able  to  learn  the  names 
of  our  benefactors,  nor  have  I  ever  seen  mention  of 
the  timely  generosity  in  print;  yet  I  know  it  was 
treasured  in  the  hearts  of  those  starving  and  dis- 
heartened people  ever  afterward.  Supplied  with 
provisions,  we  moved  on  in  better  heart,  but  still 
very  slowly.  Our  oxen,  with  sore  feet  and  bodies 
worn  to  skin  and  bones,  could  make  only  a  few  miles 
a  day.  On  the  Umatilla  river,  one  of  our  oxen  gave 
entirely  out  and  could  go  no  further;  we  left  the 
wagon  and  what  few  things  we  had,  and,  driving 
the  remaining  ox,  with  some  bed  clothes  on  his  back, 
we  moved  on  toward  The  Dalles.  After  weary  days 
we  reached  the  place  on  the  8th  day  of  October. 

The  first  of  the  immigration  had  crossed  the 
Cascades  with  their  teams,  but  the  snow  now  lay 
deep  on  the  summit,  and  no  one  could  cross  it.  Sev- 
eral hundred  were  trying  to  get  boats  to  go  down 
the  Columbia  river,  and  each  day  some  were  start- 
ing down  in  canoes  which  they  bought  from  the 
Indians.  Some  made  flatboats,  and  some  were  be- 
ing taken  in  yawl  boats.  There  were  no  permanent 
residents  at  The  Dalles,  but  some  soldiers  were 
building  a  log  fort  there.  We  secured  two  large  In- 
dian canoes,  fastened  them  about  six  feet  apart,  laid 


18  STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

a  floor  of  boards  across  them,  and  with  some  others 
we  paddled  out  on  the  great  Columbia  with  our  novel 
craft.  What  a  bliss  it  was  to  move  along  without 
the  pain  of  walking  on  sore  feet. 

The  elder  members  of  our  party  seemed  hope- 
ful ;  the  deep,  steady  current  of  the  great  river  that 
bore  us  along  told  them  of  a  great  inland  empire  to 
the  north,  while  the  warm  breeze  that  fanned  our 
faces  spoke  of  sunlit  lands  and  seas  to  the  south. 
When  we  reached  the  Cascades,  we  disembarked 
and  walked  around  the  falls,  a  distance  of  four  or 
five  miles;  we  then  secured  a  fisherman's  boat  and 
went  on  down.  About  the  1st  of  November  we 
landed  a  mile  below  the  village  of  Portland,  near 
where  the  railroad  depot  now  stands.  Two  hundred 
destitute  emigrants  were  camped  there  on  the  sand. 

The  day  after  our  arrival,  the  drays,  trucks, 
wagons,  carriages,  and  vehicles  of  all  kinds,  were 
sent  down  to  bring  the  emigrants  into  town.  All 
were  moved,  not  one  was  left  behind,  together  with 
all  possessions.  We  were  taken  to  houses  to  shelter 
us  from  the  rain.  Many  went,  I  think,  to  a  large 
building  once  used  as  a  hotel,  and  was,  if  my 
memory  serves  me  right,  called  the  Columbia  house. 
We  were  furnished  with  clothing,  provisions,  and 
firewood;  physicians  came  to  care  for  the  sick,  and 
not  a  dollar  was  asked,  or  paid,  for  all  this.  The 


STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON  19 

same  hands  that  had  reached  out  to  us  when  starv- 
ing beyond  the  mountains,  now  loaded  us  with  com- 
forts and  welcomed  us  to  the  new  land. 

No  one  not  situated  as  we  were  could  imagine 
what  a  blessing  such  kindness  was  to  us,  and  how 
it  caused  us  from  the  first  to  love  our  new  home. 
Who  were  the  principal  actors  in  this  silent  drama 
of  frontier  life  in  Oregon  we  never  knew.  Grateful, 
we  made  inquiry  without  avail.  The  pioneers  of  the 
great  Northwest  city  did  not  allow  their  alms  to  be 
known  of  men.  I  know  not  how  many  yet  survive, 
who  left  with  us  that  rain-soaked  beach  on  that 
bleak,  November  day,  and  many  of  our  good  Samari- 
tans must  have  passed  to  their  reward.  But  even  at 
this  late  date  I  want  it  known  that  in  that  homeless 
crowd  of  sufferers  there  was  one  motherless  boy  into 
whose  heart  those  acts  of  kindness  sank  deep;  and 
in  all  the  years  that  have  passed  he  has  loved  the 
city  of  Portland,  not  because  it  has  since  grown  into 
a  great  metropolis,  commanding  respect  for  its 
wealth  and  beauty,  but  for  those  acts  of  kindness 
so  long  ago,  and  for  the  gratitude  and  love  kindled 
by  them,  which  have  warmed  his  own  heart  through 
life. 

I  remember  that  the  streets  of  Portland  were 
very  muddy,  and  that  a  little  way  back  from  the 
river,  probably  on  Third  street,  the  great  stumps 


20  STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

were  still  in  the  ground;  a  little  farther  back,  the 
forest  of  fir  hemmed  the  village  in.  A  few  days 
after  our  arrival  Colonel  Chapman's  family  offered 
a  temporary  home  to  my  two  sisters,  and  father  and 
we  boys  started  up  the  valley.  We  found  a  man 
who  set  us  across  the  Willamette  river  in  a  canoe; 
there  was  a  ferry  in  use,  but  the  boat  had  met  with 
an  accident  and  could  not  run. 

Through  the  heavy  timber  along  a  little,  nar- 
row, muddy  road,  we  made  our  way  on  foot  to  Ore- 
gon City,  a  little  town  under  the  hill,  older  still 
than  Portland,  and  claiming  to  be  the  principal  city 
of  Oregon.  Salem  was  next,  only  a  few  houses  and 
a  county  seat.  So  much  water  was  encountered  in 
the  valley  that  we  took  to  the  hills,  and  lather  at 
last  located  a  donation  claim  on  the  foothills  above 
Brownsville,  in  Linn  county,  a  beautiful  place  of 
gently  rolling,  grassy  lands,  a  great  mountain  peak 
above,  and  the  broad,  beautiful  valley  in  full  view 
below.  Everywhere  on  our  tramp  from  Portland 
we  mot  the  same  kindly  welcome  which  had  greeted 
us  there,  and  although  we  were  not  entirely  with- 
out money,  not  a  cent  would  anyone  take  from  us 
on  the  whole  journey. 

Our  neighbors,  what  few  we  had,  had  been 
several  years  in  the  valley,  and  were  equally  kind, 
generous,  and  united  in  efforts  to  assist  us  to  get  a 


STORIES  OF  OLD  OGEGON  21 

start  in  life  again.  There  was  plenty  of  work  to 
do,  and  at  good  prices,  and  so  we  soon  felt  quite 
comfortable,  had  a  little  farm  under  cultivation, 
and  were  raising  some  cattle  and  horses.  Three 
years  of  this  quiet  life,  and  the  Indian  wars  of  1855 
and  1856  broke  out,  both  north  and  south  of  us. 
Many  settlers  and  their  families  were  murdered,  and 
volunteers  were  called  for  by  the  territorial  gov- 
ernment. 

I  was  very  anxious  to  go,  for  I  had  already 
learned  to  shoot  a  rifle  with  the  best,  but  father 
would  not  hear  of  it,  and  so  I  had  to  work  on  the 
farm  while  thrilling  news  of  battles  was  brought 
by  every  mail.  Many  of  our  neighbors  went  to  fight 
the  Rogue  river  Indians  in  Southern  Oregon.  Some 
of  them  never  returned.  The  Indians  were  well 
armed,  and  made  a  determined  fight  with  Old  John, 
George  Limp  and  Tyee  Sam  as  leaders.  Many  were 
the  thrilling  stories  heard  of  the  heroic  defense  made 
by  some  of  the  settlers  when  the  Indians  first 
broke  out. 

One  woman,  Mrs.  Harris,  and  her  12-year-old 
daughter,  after  the  father  and  husband  was  shot 
down  in  his  door,  defended  the  house  for  thirty-six 
hours,  until  they  were  rescued.  After  Harris  was 
shot  he  lived  long  enough  to  tell  his  wife  how  to 
load  the  rifle.  The  cabin  had  loop  holes,  and  Mrs. 


22  STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

Harris,  with  the  rifle,  guarded  one  side  of  the  house 
while  the  daughter,  with  a  six-shooter,  defended  the 
other.  The  little  girl's  arm  was  soon  broken  by  a 
shot,  and  with  her  left  arm  hanging  at  her  side,  she 
kept  her  watch  and  fired. 

The  Rogue  river,  or  Digger  Indians,  as  we 
called  them,  were  driven  from  the  place  and  finally 
defeated  and  taken  to  the  Grand  Ronde  reservation, 
and  peace  was  restored.  Of  all  the  settlers  of  Ore- 
gon, those  of  the  southern  portion  have  suffered 
most  from  Indians.  The  Diggers  were  always  un- 
friendly and  treacherous,  and  murdered  the  whites 
whenever  an  opportunity  offered.  A  friend,  who 
lived  on  Coquille  river,  gave  me  the  following  ac- 
count of  their  hostility  and  treachery  before  the  war 
broke  out,  and  of  the  dangers  encountered  by  two 
settlers,  which  may  well  be  called  a  test  of  courage : 


A  Test  of  Courage. 


ii. 


The  sun  had  gone  down  behind  the  fir-topped 
hills  on  a  November  evening  early  in  the  '50s,  and 
the  elements  were  gathering  their  forces  about  the 
headwaters  of  the  Coquille  river  for  a  stormy  night 
as  a  pioneer,  carrying  a  deer  on  his  back,  reached 
his  lonely  cabin.  Only  half  an  hour  before  he  had 
gone  out  in  search  of  game.  His  return  after  so 
short  an  absence  would  indicate  what  was  true, 
that  Southern  Oregon  was  at  that  time  a  hunter's 
paradise.  This  man's  name  was  Williams. 

About  a  year  before  our  story  opens  he  had 
built  his  cabin  and  commenced  his  solitary  life  full 
ten  miles  from  his  nearest  neighbor.  Those  who 
knew  him  called  him  Captain  Williams.  Whether 
this  was  a  complimentary  title  received  somewhere 
in  the  Southern  states  in  accordance  with  a  custom 
among  those  hospitable  Southerners,  or  whether  he 
had  been  baptized  "Captain"  in  some  battle  with 
the  natives  of  Oregon,  was  not  known. 

As  he  was  hanging  his  burden  on  one  of  the 


24  STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

logs  which  had  been  left  protruding  from  the  corner 
of  the  cabin  for  such  purposes,  he  was  surprised  to 
see  approaching  an  Indian,  one  of  the  Digger  tribe, 
known  throughout  the  Northwest  as  the  most  treach- 
erous and  cunning  of  all  the  Indian  bands. 

Instantly  the  pioneer's  rifle  was  brought  into 
a  position  for  ready  use. 

"Nika  close  tilicum,  nika  ticky  mitilite  copa  myka 
house  uckok  polakalee  hiuh  snash  chako." 

"All  right,"  said  Williams,  answering  in  the 
Digger's  own  language.  "It  is  going  to  be  a  bad 
night.  You  can  come  in  if  you  are  a  friend;  my 
house  is  always  open  to  my  friends." 

It  was  surprising  that  this  Indian  sought  shel- 
ter even  from  a  storm  in  a  white  man's  dwelling. 
There  had  been  bad  blood  between  the  two  races 
for  some  time  and  they  generally  communicated  with 
each  other  with  the  rifle  and  bow  and  arrow.  If  the 
Indians  were  successful  the  transaction  was  closed 
with  the  tomahawk  and  scalping  knife ;  if  not,  they 
lay  where  they  fell. 

Williams  treated  the  Indian  as  if  he  believed  his 
professions  of  friendship  were  sincere,  but  watched 
every  move  he  made.  After  supper  and  the  in- 
evitable smoke  was  over,  the  Indian  showed  some 
gold  nuggets,  which  he  said  he  found  on  the  Sixes 
river,  about  sixty  miles  from  there,  and  wanted 


A  TEST  OF  COURAGE  25 

Williams  to  bring  some  white  men  down  to  the 
mines,  promising  to  show  where  the  gold  was  found 
and  treat  them  as  friends.  The  next  morning,  after 
the  Indian,  with  many  professions  of  friendship, 
had  gone,  Williams  sat  thinking  about  his  strange 
visitor.  If  there  had  been  no  other  reason  to  doubt 
him  his  looks  were  sufficient  to  condemn  him,  for 
villian  was  written  all  over  him,  from  head  to 
heel.  His  face  was  disfigured  by  a  deep  scar  across 
his  right  cheek,  as  though  a  bullet  had  plowed  a 
furrow  there,  and  his  eyes  shone  with  that  peculiar 
stealthy  expression  so  disagreeable  in  man  or  beast. 

While  Williams  believed  "Scar  Face,"  as  he 
afterwards  called  him,  was  laying  a  trap  for  him, 
he  also  believed  there  was  gold  to  be  found  on  the 
Sixes  river,  and  had  for  some  time  been  thinking 
of  going  there  to  prospect.  Indian  or  no  Indian, 
treachery  or  not,  he  resolved  if  he  could  find  a  com- 
panion to  take  the  chances  with  him  to  go  and  see. 
There  was  one  man  whom  he  preferred  above  all 
others  for  such  a  journey — Jake  Hedden.  To  him 
he  went  and  told  what  he  wanted. 

"I  guess  I'm  the  man  you'r  lookin'  fur.  I'm  jist 
dyin'  fur  a  little  outdoor  air.  These  hills  are  too 
short  fur  me.  I  can't  git  a  good  breath  among  'em. 
I  want  to  get  where  mountains  has  some  size  to  'em. 
If  we  don't  find  any  gold  maybe  we'll  git  a  shot  at 


26  STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

a  Digger.  I've  been  nearly  dead  for  an  Injin  fight 
ever  since  the  sneakin'  devils  killed  brother  Jim.  I 
wouldn't  felt  so  cussed  mean  about  it  if  they  had 
give  Jim  a  show,  but  they  never  showed  thar  heads 
until  he  passed  along  the  trail,  and  then  shot  him  in 
the  back;  filled  him  full  of  arrers.  We  wus  out 
huntin'  an'  he  wus  only  a  little  way  from  camp.  I 
heard  him  whistlin'  jist  before  he  was  shot.  Poor 
Jim!  He  wus  the  kindest-hearted  boy  that  ever 
lived.  He  wus  too  good  for  an  Indian  fighter, 
he  wus  always  whistlin'.  He  called  me  when  they 
shot  him.  I  never  thought  of  Indians.  I  knowed 
Jim  had  left  his  gun  in  camp  and  thought  he  had 
jumped  a  grizzly.  When  I  got  there,  Jim  was  layin' 
in  the  trail  with  six  arrers  through  him  and  a 
dozen  Diggers  was  trying  to  scalp  him ;  but  he  wus 
dyin'  with  his  knife  in  his  hand  and  they  were 
afraid  to  come  near  him.  I  brung  Jim's  gun  and 
pistol  and  was  right  on  'em  when  they  seed  me.  I 
didn't  see  the  Injins  neither,  I  wus  runnin'  so  fast. 
How  they  all  cum  to  miss  me  I  can't  tell.  I  expect 
my  being  so  big  scared  'em.  But  I  didn't  miss,  run- 
nin' or  standin',  I  never  missed  a  shot.  They  got 
behind  trees,  but  they  couldn't  shoot  without  showin' 
tharselves.  They  kept  runnin'  and  I  followed  up  as 
long  as  I  could  see  any.  When  I  got  back,  Jim  wus 
dead.  He  hadn't  tried  to  pull  any  arrers  out,  but 


A  TEST  OF  COURAGE  27 

he  scratched  out  'Good-by,  Jake,'  with  the  point  of 
his  knife  on  the  ground  in  the  trail  before  he  died. 
Well,  I  couldn't  do  nothin'.  You  know,  I  had  killed 
ten  Diggers,  but  all  the  Diggers  that  ever  wus  born 
wouldn't  have  paid  me  for  Jim.  I  packed  him  to 
camp.  He  wus  a  little  fellow,  and  I  am  a  purty 
strong  man,  but  that  wus  the  heaviest  load  I  ever 
carried.  I  brought  Jim  out  here  with  me  and  prom- 
ised ma  to  take  care  of  him  and  thought  I  wus  doin' 
it  till  he  was  killed.  I  haven't  writ  home  yet.  I  jist 
can't  tell  'em  Jim's  dead.  Yes,  I  can  go  with  you 
down  on  the  Sixes.  The  only  thing  that  bothers 
me  is  my  wife.  She  don't  like  fur  me  to  go  among 
the  In j  ins,  but  I  can  fix  her  all  right.  She  can  stay 
with  her  pap  and  I've  got  lots  of  ammunition  and 
grub.  Don't  say  anything  to  her  about  In  j  ins;  jist 
talk  about  prospectin'  for  gold,  and  I  don't  think 
she  will  kick." 

After  the  matter  had  been  talked  over  with 
Mrs.  Hedden  she  did  not  object  to  her  husband  going 
prospecting,  and  cheerfully  made  preparations  for 
his  journey.  The  day  they  started  she  followed 
Captain  Williams  down  to  the  spring,  where  he 
had  gone  for  some  water,  and  said: 

"I  want  to  talk  about  Jake.  I  want  him  to  go 
because  he  don't  want  to  stay  poor  when  pap  is  well 
off.  He  wants  me  to  have  as  much  as  I  always  did. 


28  STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

Pap  didn't  want  me  to  have  him,  you  know.  I  don't 
think  he  had  anything  agin  him  but  his  bein'  so 
big.  Pap  don't  like  anything  bigger  than  he  is.  But 
Jake  beat  him  at  last.  I  believe  I'll  tell  you  about  it. 

"He  always  said  I  shouldn't  have  Jake,  until 
one  day,  just  before  we  got  married,  one  of  the  cows 
fell  in  the  well.  Pap  was  runnin'  round,  huntin' 
ropes  and  poles  to  git  her  out.  It  was  old  Brin,  and 
the  children  was  all  cryin'.  Jist  then  Jake  come  up. 
He  was  coming  up  to  see  me.  He  had  on  his  biled 
shirt  and  looked  awful  nice.  He  took  old  Brin  by 
the  horns  and  pulled  her  out.  Pap  never  said  a 
word  agin  him  after  that.  But  that  ain't  what  I 
wanted  to  tell  you.  I  want  you  to  try  to  keep  out 
of  trouble  with  the  Injins.  You  don't  know  Jake  as 
well  as  I  do.  He's  crazy  to  fight  'em  ever  since  his 
brother  was  killed.  He  has  been  at  me  to  go  to 
pap's  and  let  him  go  down  on  the  coast  to  kill  In- 
jins. If  it  wasn't  for  me  and  our  boy  he  would  do 
nothin'  but  hunt  Diggers  all  his  life.  Now,  don't 
let  Jake  get  into  a  fight  if  you  can  help  it.  If  the 
Injins  do  come  on  you  Jake  will  stay  with  you.  He 
will  never  run.  If  you  get  hurt  he  will  stay  and 
fight  for  you  as  long  as  he  lives.  He  will  never  back 
down  from  anything. 

"Now,  I  want  you  to  promise  me  to  stand  by 
Jake,  as  I  tell  you  he  will  stand  by  you.  If  he  gets 


A  TEST  OF  COURAGE  29 

hurt  I  want  you  to  promise  not  to  leave  him.  Say 
you  will  stick  to  him  and  I  will  feel  better  while 
you  are  gone." 

Williams  saw  tears  gathering  in  her  eyes,  and 
taking  her  hand,  said: 

"Mrs.  Hedden,  all  you  say  of  Jake  is  true,  and 
I  solemnly  promise  to  stand  by  him.  We  will  either 
come  home  together  or  both  stay  in  the  mountains. 
If  the  Diggers  get  him  they  will  get  me.  But  don't 
be  uneasy,  the  Diggers  fight  mostly  with  bows  and 
arrows  and  are  careful  about  coming  near  men  who 
carry  rifles  and  Colt's  revolvers." 

"Good-bye,  Mary,"  said  Jake,  after  giving  his 
wife  a  hearty  kiss.  "Pap  will  be  down  after  you  this 
evenin'.  Take  good  care  of  yourself  an'  the  boy. 
I'm  goin'  to  bring  him  some  nuggets  for  him  to  play 
with  when  I  git  back." 

Mounted  on  stout  ponies  and  leading  a  pack 
horse,  the  prospectors  started  for  Sixes  river.  This 
is  a  short,  rapid  stream  which  takes  its  rise  in  the 
coast  mountains  and  empties  into  the  ocean  six  miles 
north  of  Port  Orford.  It  runs  through  a  wild  jungle 
of  mountain  peaks,  at  whose  feet  it  has  dug  chasms 
as  deep,  dark  and  dreadful  as  any  found  on  the 
coast.  This  wild  region  was  known  to  be  the  strong- 
hold of  the  Indians  and  had  never  been  explored 
by  white  men.  Only  such  views  were  had  as  could 


30  STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

be  obtained  from  distant  mountain  tops.  These 
daring  hunters  were  going  into  a  trap  which  they 
knew  had  been  deliberately  set  for  them,  among 
hundreds  of  hostile  Indians.  Going,  too,  with  the 
full  belief  that  their  skill  in  mountain  craft,  marks- 
manship and  superior  arms  would  enable  them  to 
defeat  anything  they  might  meet.  One  of  them  had 
no  motive  of  hostility  toward  the  Indians,  the  other 
no  more  than  might  be  engendered  on  the  frontier 
at  any  time  in  the  breast  of  one  who  had  suffered 
the  loss  which  he  had. 

From  the  standpoint  of  a  higher  civilization,  sur- 
rounded by  different  circumstances  and  conditions,  it 
might  appear  that  they  were  reckless ;  that  for  some 
cause  they  were  weary  of  life,  and,  knowing  it  to  be 
worthless  to  them,  sought  to  throw  it  away  in  some 
encounter.  On  the  contrary,  they  were  well  bal- 
anced, cheerful  men,  who  had  much  to  hope  from 
the  development  of  the  country  in  which  they  had 
made  their  homes.  They  were  in  a  land  of  plenty, 
and  Hedden  had  a  handsome  wife  and  child.  They 
were  simply  pioneers,  performing  an  act  of  courage 
and  self-reliance,  similar  to  those  performed  by  their 
ancestors  ever  since  the  landing  of  the  pilgrims  in 
America.  The  genuine  hardihood  and  true  nobility 
of  the  American  pioneer,  the  advance  guard  of  our 
civilization,  has  never  been  fully  understood  and 


A  TEST  OF  COURAGE  31 

recognized  and  will  not  be  for  many  years  to  come. 
All  heroism  has  its  critics.  The  critic  has  his  day, 
but  the  hero  survives  him.  The  Anglo-Saxon  uses 
the  instruments  of  his  progress  roughly  and  they 
may  suffer  neglect,  but  in  the  fullness  of  time  he 
will  gather  them  to  be  held  as  precious  relics  in 
his  early  struggles.  In  pursuance  of  a  great  law  of 
nature,  civiization  invades  the  realm  of  the  savage. 
There  is,  there  can  be  no  mingling.  The  Chris- 
tian can  no  more  leap  the  chasm  of  a  thousand 
years  than  the  savage.  It  is  a  war  of  extermina- 
tion. Disciples  of  Fenimore  Cooper  and  other  sen- 
timentalists, who  have  shrunk  from  the  dangers  of 
this  contest  and  who  have  never  encountered  a  more 
formidable  foe  than  one  who  has  wielded  a  quill 
in  opposition  to  their  mild  emotions,  may  deplore 
the  fate  of  the  savage  and  censure  his  treatment  at 
the  hands  of  the  pioneer,  but  science,  culture  and  re- 
ligion, those  grand  aggressors  in  their  line,  cannot 
long  refrain  from  giving  honor  to  those  who  stood 
between  them  and  destruction  at  the  hands  of  the 
savage  foes.  The  heroic  pioneer  will  live  in  history 
down  to  the  remotest  changes  of  time,  while  his 
traducer  will  be  forgotten  before  the  hero  he  de- 
nounced has  reached  the  zenith  of  his  fame. 

The  first  day's  journey  was  a  short  one  and  our 
prospectors  camped  without  meeting  with  any  ad- 


32  STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

ventures.  The  stream  beside  their  camp  was  full 
of  mountain  trout  and  the  speckled  beauties  were 
enjoyed  with  the  keen  relish  of  youthful  appetites. 
The  second  day's  travel  was  over  mountains  so 
rugged  that  even  their  hardy  ponies  were  taxed  to 
their  fullest  strength.  As  the  sun  was  going  down, 
and  our  hunters  were  looking  about  for  a  suitable 
place  to  camp,  they  came  to  the  crossing  of  a  small 
stream,  in  the  banks  of  which  was  worn  by  game, 
deep  cuts  reaching  down  to  the  water  on  either  side. 
Brush  and  overhanging  boughs  prevented  their  see- 
ing the  streams  until  they  were  both  in  the  cut  and 
Williams  had  reached  the  water.  As  they  glanced 
across,  there  in  the  shallow  water,  not  twenty  feet 
from  them,  stood  an  old  grizzly  and  her  two  cubs. 
The  surprise  was  mutual  and  the  conflict  inevitable. 
Neither  party  could  safely  retreat.  Had  Fenimore 
Cooper  been  in  Williams'  place  the  world  would 
probably  have  never  read  some  of  his  later  stories. 
But  Williams'  gun  went  to  his  face  like  a  flash  and 
a  bullet  was  planted  square  between  the  threatening 
eyes.  It  was  a  fatal  shot  and  no  more  was  needed. 
The  cubs  fell  easy  victims.  It  was  fortunate  that 
Williams  fired  so  quickly  and  with  such  accurate 
aim.  Had  his  ball  struck  an  inch  from  the  center 
it  would  have  glanced  harmlessly  from  the  monster's 
head  and  this  story  would  have  been  cut  short  here. 


A  TEST  OF  COURAGE  33 

Those  who  are  unacquainted  with  the  ferocious 
nature  of  the  grizzly  bear  can  form  no  idea  of  the 
danger  the  hunters  were  in.  Like  all  other  wild 
animals,  the  grizzly  is  afraid  of  man  and  will  gen- 
erally shun  an  encounter  with  him  unless  surprised 
by  a  sudden  meeting,  or  when  the  mother  is  with 
her  young,  in  which  case  she  never  asks  nor  gives 
any  quarter.  The  enormous  size  and  strength  of 
the  grizzly  render  him,  to  those  who  know  him,  the 
most  dreaded  of  all  the  wild  beasts.  The  world-re- 
nowned African  lion,  whose  terrible  roar  the  school- 
books  tell  us  shakes  whole  forests,  does  not  compare 
with  him,  in  either  size  or  strength.  Neither  does 
he  display  the  courage  or  vitality  of  the  grizzly.  A 
full  grown  one  weighs  about  2,000  pounds,  the  skin 
on  his  neck  and  shoulders  is  an  inch  thick  and  he 
has  been  known  to  pursue  and  kill  a  hunter  after 
two  rifle  balls  had  pierced  his  heart.  The  age  in 
which  man  delights  to  see  wild  beasts  fight  has 
passed,  but  to  correct  classical  stories,  and  for  the 
purpose  of  taking  the  starch  out  of  some  of  the 
traditions  of  the  old  world,  it  would  be  well  if  an 
intercontinental  meeting  were  arranged  between  his 
majesty,  the  king  of  the  jungles,  and  the  lord  of 
the  Sierras. 

Any  man  who  ever  saw  a  full  grown  grizzly,  or 
even  where  one  had  placed  his  foot  in  the  mud, 


34  STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

would  cheerfully  risk  a  purse  on  his  mountain  lord- 
ship. Had  young  Sampson  encountered  a  grizzly 
bear  instead  of  a  lion,  Delila  would  have  been  spared 
the  shame  of  the  betrayal  of  her  husband,  and  the 
Philistines  would  have  escaped  a  humiliating  defeat 
with  an  ignoble  weapon. 

Camp  was  made  near  where  the  grizzlys  fell. 
The  old  bear's  woolly  skin  softened  the  hunters' 
couch,  the  cubs  furnished  excellent  steaks  and 
roasts,  while  the  ponies  found  abundant  grass  on 
the  creek  flats.  Hedden  was  an  enormous  eater. 
They  had  traveled  from  daybreak  until  dark  with- 
out food  and  he  did  the  young  bears  justice.  Will- 
iams used  to  laughingly  declare  Hedden  devoured 
one  of  the  small  bears  before  he  went  to  rest  on 
the  mother's  skin. 

Shortly  after  sunrise  on  the  following  morning 
they  started,  after  christening  their  camping  place, 
which,  in  memory  of  their  encounter,  was  called 
Bear  Flat.  This  name  it  retains  to  this  day.  On 
the  fourth  day  from  home  they  came  to  Sixes  river 
and  selected  a  favorable  looking  place  to  pros- 
pect. On  sinking  the  first  hole  they  found  gold 
sufficient  to  encourage  them  to  prepare  to  thoroughly 
examine  the  river  bed  and  adjacent  gulches  for  dig- 
gings. The  first  thing  to  do  was  to  secure  their 
camp  against  attack  from  Indians.  They  selected  a 


A  TEST  OF  COURAGE  35 

little  mound,  from  which  emerged  a  spring,  and 
then,  with  the  aid  of  loose  rock  which  was  lying 
handy,  they  built  a  wall  completely  around  it,  leav- 
ing loopholes  at  convenient  places.  With  bark  from 
cedar  trees  they  made  a  good  shelter  from  rain  and 
soon  were  quite  comfortably  camped.  They  con- 
cluded to  build  a  small  wing  dam  in  the  river  in 
order  to  work  the  bedrock.  They  had  been  working 
at  this  dam  about  ten  days  when  they  discovered 
moccasin  tracks  in  the  river  bottom  near  their  camp. 
An  investigation  showed  there  had  been  about 
twenty  Indians  prowling  around  their  little  camp 
the  night  before.  After  this,  only  one  worked  while 
the  other  stood  guard.  One  morning,  as  they  were 
leaving  camp,  the  Indians,  who  had  secreted  them- 
selves nearby,  gave  them  a  shower  of  arrows,  luckily 
none  of  which  took  effect.  With  a  bound,  our  pros- 
pectors were  within  their  little  fortification  prepar- 
ing for  defense.  It  was  some  time  before  an  Indian 
was  seen.  Occasionally  an  arrow  would  whiz  over- 
head, but  in  vain  Hedden  and  Williams  tried  to  get 
a  shot  at  the  skulking  Diggers.  Towards  evening 
they  grew  bolder  and  sent  their  arrows  showering 
about  the  fort,  sometimes  falling  within  the  en- 
closure. 

"Look  out,"  said  Williams,  "those  arrows  are 
poisoned;  don't  get  hit  by  one." 

The  Diggers,  finding  the  boys  did  not  fire,  and 


36  STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

knowing  there  were  but  two  of  them,  rose  from 
their  hiding  places  and  charged  upon  them.  Now 
was  their  time,  and  rifle  and  pistol,  for  the  first 
time,  awoke  the  echoes  among  the  mountain  peaks 
which,  rolling  the  startling  sounds  from  one  to  an- 
other, proclaimed  the  doom  of  the  savage.  Not  a 
shot  missed  its  mark.  Without  daring  to  come  over 
the  wall  the  Diggers  turned  and  ran  to  cover,  leav- 
ing eight  or  ten  of  their  number  where  they  fell. 

"The  cowardly  skunks  can't  stand  fire,"  yelled 
Hedden.  "I've  a  notion  to  follow  'em." 

"Never,"  said  Williams.  "It  would  be  certain 
death.  Besides  we  have  got  some  business  here.  I 
saw  one  Digger  squat  behind  our  wall.  He  didn't 
run  with  the  rest.  He's  got  some  grit  in  him,  and 
we  must  be  careful  how  we  handle  him.  You  keep 
a  lookout  for  the  others  and  I  will  climb  over  and 
see  what  he  is  doing." 

Williams  got  over  the  wall  on  the  opposite  side 
of  the  Digger  and  commenced  crawling  around  to- 
ward him,  keeping  his  pistol  ready  for  instant  use. 
The  Digger  heard  him  coming  and  crawled  around 
the  other  way.  Hedden  could  get  a  glimpse  of  them 
as  they  passed  around. 

"Must  I  come  and  help  you?"  he  asked. 

"No;  keep  inside,  but  pass  around  behind  him 


A  TEST  OF  COURAGE  37 

and  make  a  little  noise  so  he  will  think  I  am  still 
after  him." 

Jake  did  as  he  was  told.  The  Digger,  thinking 
he  was  still  pursued,  crawled  on.  He  never  knew 
the  deception  practiced  upon  him.  Williams'  pistol 
ended  his  career  while  he  still  thought  his  foe  was 
behind  him.  Williams  recognized  him  at  once  as 
the  Indian  who  had  come  to  his  cabin  and  invited 
him  to  come  to  hunt  for  gold  on  Sixes  river.  To 
his  belt  was  fastened  a  small  buckskin  purse,  in 
which  were  found  the  identical  nuggets  shown  to 
Captain  Williams. 

"Here,  Jake,  take  these  to  your  boy ;  you  may  not 
be  able  to  find  any  yourself." 

About  sundown,  great  numbers  of  Indians  were 
seen  gathering,  but  they  kept  at  a  distance  until 
it  began  to  grow  dark,  when  they  built  fires,  en- 
circling the  fort  about  300  yards  distance.  When 
Williams  saw  this  he  was  thoughtful  for  awhile,  and 
then  said : 

"I'll  tell  you  what,  Jake,  I  don't  like  the  looks 
of  that.  There  are  not  less  than  200  Indians  around 
us.  As  soon  as  it  gets  dark  they  will  leave  a  few 
around  the  fires  for  us  to  look  at,  the  rest  will  crawl 
close  to  us,  then  they  will  raise  a  whoop  and  pile 


286305 


38  STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

right  over  that  wall.  They  intend  to  do  it,  Jake,  as 
sure  as  you  are  born." 

"If  they  do,  we'll  give  'em  hell.  I'd  give  my 
ranch  to  have  a  hundred  of  'em  in  this  pen." 

"But,"  said  Williams,  "even  if  we  killed  every 
one  of  them  one  of  us  would  be  very  likely  to  get 
a  poisoned  arrow.  Now  I  don't  like  to  leave  our 
camp  outfit  and  horses,  and  I  don't  like  to  run,  but 
if  we  ever  get  out  of  this  we've  got  to  start  in  the 
next  half  hour.  If  we  can  reach  the  river  before  the 
Diggers  come  we  are  all  right." 

Jake's  calm,  blue  eyes  flashed  fire.  "Do  as  you 
please,"  he  said,  "I  cum  down  here  to  fight  Injins, 
an'  I  ain't  goin'  to  run  now  I've  found  'em." 

Williams  was  silent  a  moment,  then  said: 

"Jake,  your  wife,  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  asked 
me  to  keep  you  from  gettin'  hurt.  I  promised  to 
try  to  do  it.  I  know  if  we  do  not  leave  here  in  half 
an  hour  you  will  never  see  her  and  your  boy  again. 
If  you  stay,  I  will  stay.  I  will  never  go  back  to  tell 
her  the  Diggers  got  you." 

Hedden's  face  had  softened  while  Williams  spoke 
of  his  wife  and  child.  The  fire  faded  from  his  eyes 
as  he  answered:  "All  right,  I'll  go;  we  can  cum 
back  to  finish  our  dam  when  the  water  gits  low 
and  we'll  bring  enough  men  with  us  to  clean  out 


A  TEST  OF  COURAGE  39 

the  whole  Digger  tribe.  But  I  do  hate  to  leave  jist 
now,  I  swar." 

In  five  minutes  they  silently  left  camp  and 
started  for  the  river.  When  nearly  there  they  ran 
into  an  ambush.  About  twenty  diggers  were  secreted 
near  the  trail.  A  hand  to  hand  fight  lasted  a  mo- 
ment; when,  clubbing  their  guns,  they  beat  the 
Diggers  down  and  reached  the  heavy  belt  of  timber 
on  the  river  bottom  where  the  Indians  would  not 
dare  follow  them. 

"I  got  an  arrow  and  if  it  is  poisoned  I  had 
better  get  it  out,"  said  Williams,  "there  it  is,"  and 
he  threw  it  on  the  ground.  "But  it  leaves  an  ugly 
looking  wound." 

The  arrow,  with  flint  head  an  inch  broad,  had 
penetrated  the  right  groin  to  a  depth  of  six  inches, 
severing  a  large  vein  or  artery,  from  which  the 
blood  was  flowing  rapidly.  The  position  of  the 
wound  rendered  it  impossible  for  the  blood  to  be 
stopped  by  a  bandage.  Moreover,  the  Indians, 
afraid  to  follow  into  the  thick  timber,  could  be 
heard  shouting  to  one  another  as  they  ran  along 
the  open  ground,  intending  to  again  surround  the 
hunters  and  prevent  them  from  going  up  the  river. 
Their  plans  were  thoroughly  understood  by  Wil- 
liams, who  knew  the  only  chance  to  escape  lay  in 
eluding  the  Indians  and  preventing  them  from  sur- 


40  STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

rounding  them  again.  In  his  condition  this  was 
difficult  to  do.  The  Diggers  had  taken  their  horses 
and  there  was  no  hope  of  regaining  them. 

"Can  you  travel,  Cap?"  said  Jake. 

"0,  yes,  I'm  all  right,  but  ought  to  try  to  stop 
this  blood  some  way." 

"No,  let  it  bleed.  I'm  afraid  of  pisen.  As  long 
as  it  bleeds  its  all  right.  You've  got  a  puty  bad 
shot  in  a  bad  place,  too,  but  keep  your  grit  up 
and  I'll  stay  with  yer  till  the  last  dog's  dead.  I'm 
for  gettin'  back  to  the  fort  and  then  we'll  make  'em 
pay  for  this." 

"We  can  never  get  there,  Jake.  Besides  there 
is  nothing  left  to  eat  by  this  time.  They  would 
starve  us  out  and  make  us  fight  the  whole  band  on 
open  ground.  No,  we've  got  to  run.  It  is  our 
only  show,  Jake.  We  can't  kill  two  hundred  In- 
dians, besides,  if  I'm  poisoned  I  ought  to  get  where 
I  can  get  some  medicine  for  it." 

"All  right,  Cap.  Runnin'  or  fightin'  I'm  your 
man.  Let's  go." 

They  ran  along  the  river  bank,  keeping  in  the 
timber  as  much  as  possible.  After  awhile  the  Dig- 
gers appeared  to  have  given  up  the  chase,  as  they 
could  no  longer  be  heard.  There  was  a  trail  leading 
up  the  river  on  the  open  ground  above  the  timber, 
but  they  dared  not  follow  it  for  fear  of  ambush.  At 


A  TEST  OF  COURAGE  4i 

daylight  they  had  traveled  about  twenty  miles  with- 
out hearing  anything  of  the  Diggers.  Williams  had 
become  very  weak  from  loss  of  blood.  When  Jake 
was  able  to  see  his  face  he  knew  he  could  go  but 
little  further  without  rest.  The  logs  and  brush  on 
the  river  bottom  rendered  their  progress  slow  and 
laborious.  They  concluded  to  try  the  trail.  About 
sunrise,  as  they  were  resting  a  moment,  a  clatter 
was  heard,  and  looking  up  they  saw  about  a  dozen 
Diggers  on  ponies  following  them.  They  came  over 
a  little  hill  in  sight  about  a  hundred  yards  distant. 
There  was  a  crack  of  a  rifle  and  the  foremost  Digger 
fell  from  his  horse.  The  rest  turned  and  ran,  the 
dead  Digger's  horse  following  them. 

"Did  you  shoot?"  Jake  asked. 

"No,"  answered  a  voice  just  above  a  whisper,  "I 
tried  to  but  could  not  raise  my  gun.  I  am  very 
weak  and  can't  walk  much  farther.  Do  you  think 
the  Diggers  will  come  again?" 

"Not  for  awhile,  yit.  We  must  git  in  the  timber 
again." 

They  left  the  trail  and  again  sought  the  river 
bottom.  It  was  with  great  difficulty  Williams  walked 
along  slowly  for  about  a  mile,  when  he  sank  to  the 
ground  in  a  dead  faint.  Jake  ran  to  the  river  and 
brought  some  water  in  his  hat  with  which  he  bathed 


42  STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

his  face  and  temples.  In  a  few  moments  Williams 
opened  his  eyes. 

"I'm  all  right  now,  Jake.  Sit  down,  I  want  to 
talk  to  you.  I  have  been  thinking  over  what  I  am 
going  to  say  all  night.  It  won't  take  me  long  to  say 
it.  You  see  I  can't  walk,  the  blood  is  nearly  out  of 
my  body,  my  wound  has  stopped  bleeding  and  is 
very  painful.  I  am  certain  that  arrow  was  poisoned. 
Now,  Jake,  I  promised  your  wife  to  keep  you  from 
being  killed  by  the  Diggers  and  I  want  to  do  it.  I 
have  walked  all  night  in  great  pain  to  save  you,  for 
I  knew  an  hour  after  I  was  shot  I  could  never  reach 
the  settlements  and  I  don't  believe  a  doctor  could 
save  my  life  if  I  was  there  now.  There  is  no  one 
depending  on  me,  you  have  a  wife  and  child.  The 
Diggers  haven't  left  us,  they  will  go  around  that 
hill  to  get  ahead  of  us.  The  whole  band  will  come 
on  in  an  hour  or  two,  we  will  be  surrounded  with 
no  earthly  chance  of  escape.  You  can  do  me  no 
good  and  I've  got  to  say  it,  Jake — we  must  part.  I 
want  to  do  it  now.  I  want  you  to  go  while  you  can 
get  away.  You  can  come  back  and  bury  me.  Now, 
don't  say  a  word,  Jake.  Help  me  down  near  the 
water  and  then  go." 

Just  then  a  shout  on  the  hill  proved  Williams  was 


A  TEST  OF  COURAGE  43 

correct;  that  the  Indians  were  still  following  them 
and  no  doubt  had  discovered  their  retreat. 

"Come,  Jake,  don't  loose  a  minute  but  go.  I  can 
get  to  the  water  myself.  Go  before  they  get  around 
the  hill." 

During  William's  talk,  Jake  had  stood,  his  face 
the  very  picture  of  astonishment.  That  look  gave 
place  to  one  of  heroic  resolve  as  he  answered :  "To 
all  that  talk,  I  say  no!  You  don't  know  Jake  Hed- 
den  or  you  wouldn't  a  sed  a  word  of  it.  I'll  never 
leave  you  while  there  is  breath  in  ye.  If  ye  die  I'll 
bury  ye  as  decently  as  I  ken  before  I  go.  I'm  not 
certain  I'll  go  then  as  long  as  there's  any  Diggers 
left.  My  wife  told  me  what  you  promised  her  and 
now  I  say  to  you  what  you  said  to  her,  'We  will 
come  home  or  both  stay  in  the  mountains  together.' 
If  the  In j  ins  get  you  they'll  git  me.  I  could  never 
look  Mary  in  the  face  agin  if  I  went  home  to  tell 
her  I  left  you  to  die  in  the  mountains  and  took  care 
of  myself.  We've  got  lots  of  powder  an'  lead,  we'll 
keep  on  the  open  ground  whar  the  Diggers  dasen't 
come  and  we'll  go  in  together." 

"You  forget,"  said  Williams,  "I  can  hardly  stand 
on  my  feet  and  couldn't  walk  half  a  mile  to  save  my 
life.  I  tell  you  my  strength  is  entirely  gone.  If  I 


44  STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

had  been  walking  to  save  my  own  life  I  would  never 
have  suffered  what  I  did  last  night." 

"I  don't  care  if  you  ain't  got  no  strength.  I've 
got  it.  I'm  gittin'  stronger  every  minute.  I  kin 
carry  you  on  my  back  and  whip  the  Diggers  too. 
Cap,  it's  no  use  sayin'  any  more,  it  don't  do  no  good ; 
it  jist  tires  you  to  talk.  I  aint  made  of  the  kind  uv 
stuff  to  leave  a  dyin'  man  in  the  mountains.  I'll 
pack  you  home  if  I  have  to  eat  steaks  out  of  them 
cussed  Diggers  to  git  strength  to  do  it." 

Williams  noted  the  expression  on  Jake's  massive 
features  as  he  said  this  and  divining  something  of 
the  nobility  of  the  man's  soul  he  burst  into  tears. 
Jake  took  him  on  his  back,  holding  him  with  one 
hand  and  carrying  his  gun  in  the  other.  He  waded 
the  river  and  started  up  an  open  ridge,  avoiding 
brush  or  timber  which  might  conceal  the  Indians. 
Many  of  them  were  in  sight,  but  they  dared  not 
come  within  reach  of  Jake's  deadly  rifle.  They  fol- 
lowed along,  trying  to  get  some  advantage,  but  Jake 
changed  his  course  whenever  the  Diggers  got  ahead. 
Williams  fainted  twice  during  the  day,  but  revivp^ 
again  on  being  laid  on  the  damp  ground.  He  suf- 
fered most  excruciating  pain  and  sometimes  ap- 
peared lifeless,  but  Hedden  held  him  upon  his  hercu- 
lean shoulders,  with  the  tireless  grip  of  an  ir  n 
hand,  and  strode  through  rapid  streams  and  over 


A  TEST  OF  COURAGE  45 

rugged  hills  with  scarcely  a  pause.  They  had 
brought  some  food  with  them.  Williams  could  not 
eat  but  Hedden  devoured  bread  and  bacon  with  the 
appetite  of  a  famished  wolf.  He  had  begun  to  be- 
lieve the  Diggers  had  given  up  the  chase  when  he 
was  undeceived  by  discovering  them  in  a  novel  way. 
He  was  toiling  along  on  a  little  ridge  which  joined 
the  main  or  dividing  one  between  two  small  streams 
about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  ahead,  when  he  saw  three 
deer  ahead,  a  little  to  the  right  of  his  course.  At 
first  he  thought  to  approach  and  kill  one  of  them  to 
get  some  venison,  as  his  bread  and  meat  was  nearly 
gone.  For  this  purpose  he  descended  into  a  ravine 
on  his  right  and  went  cautiously  forward  until  with- 
in rifle  shot  of  the  deer.  As  he  laid  his  burden 
down  and  was  in  the  act  of  raising  his  rifle  to  his 
face,  he  saw  the  deer  were  not  looking  at  him  but 
towards  something  in  which  they  seemed  deeply  in- 
terested near  the  end  of  the  little  ridge.  Cautiously 
squatting  to  the  ground,  he  watched  the  deer.  He 
soon  became  convinced  it  was  not  one  object  which 
alarmed  them,  for  they  changed  the  direction  of 
their  gaze  repeatedly  and  showed  alarm  which 
proved  it  was  not  other  deer  they  saw.  Hedden  was 
only  a  moment  concluding  the  Diggers  had  seen 
him  coming  up  the  little  ridge  and  secreted  them- 
selves where  it  joined  the  hill.  He  believed  they 


46  STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

were  yet  moving  about  hunting  hiding  places  as 
the  deer  indicated  the  objects  they  were  looking  at 
were  not  stationary,  but  moving.  Williams  was  too 
nearly  unconscious  to  have  a  care  what  was  going  on, 
so,  without  explaining  the  predicament  to  him,  Jake 
passed  quietly  up  the  ravine  until  he  came  to  a 
large  pine  tree  which  had  fallen  from  the  hillside, 
the  top  reaching  the  ravine.  Lying  flat  upon  the 
ground  he  crawled  along  the  side  of  this  log,  up 
the  hill  until,  he  gained  the  excavation  made  by  the 
tree  at  its  root  in  falling.  Peeping  through  the 
spreading  roots  of  the  pine,  he  saw  his  surmise 
was  correct.  A  number  of  Diggers  were  crawling 
about,  trying  to  secret  themselves  in  the  short  grass 
and  fern,  to  await  Hedden's  coming  up  the  ridge. 
Never  were  savages  more  completely  fooled.  They 
expected  Hedden  to  walk  unawares  into  the  ambush 
while  he  was  lying,  completely  sheltered,  within 
easy  range  of  their  exposed  position.  They  awoke 
to  a  knowledge  of  their  perilous  situation  at  the 
crack  of  Hedden's  rifle  and  by  the  death  of  one  of 
their  number.  A  shower  of  arrows  came  in  th3 
direction  of  Hedden's  position,  all  of  them  falling 
short.  Again  the  deadly  rifle  spoke  and  another 
Digger  stopped  worming  himself  through  the  grass. 
The  rest  sprang  to  their  feet  and  ran  for  their  lives. 
It  was  now  necessary  for  Jake  to  change  his  course, 


A  TEST  OF  COURAGE  47 

as  the  Diggers  ran  in  the  direction  he  was  going 
and  it  would  not  not  do  to  risk  another  ambush.  As 
long  as  the  Diggers  were  behind  him  there  was 
little  danger.  His  policy  was  to  show  himself  going 
in  one  direction  until  the  Indians  had  gotten  ahead, 
then  to  take  another  course,  leaving  them  to  wait 
where  he  had  no  intention  of  going.  This  rendered 
his  journey  very  tedious,  causing  him  to  travel  many 
miles  out  of  his  way.  At  dark  he  paused  a  few 
moments  to  eat  a  little  bread  and  rest  and  then 
continued  his  journey  through  the  night.  Soon  after 
dark  it  commenced  to  rain.  A  storm  came  on,  one 
of  those  terrific  thunder  storms  which  sometimes 
visit  the  mountains  in  Southern  Oregon.  The  rain 
descended  in  torrents.  Still  bearing  his  burden, 
Jake  grouped  his  way.  Nature  was  giving  heroic 
treatment  to  the  wounded  man  but  he  seemed  to 
revive  under  it,  for,  when  Jake,  fearing  he  would 
chill  to  death  in  the  storm,  had  paused,  Williams  was 
able  to  sit  up  and  talk  a  little.  His  wound  was  badly 
swollen  and  so  painful  that  Hedden,  taking  his  own 
coat  and  Williams'  leather  belt,  constructed  a  kind 
of  truss  to  support  Williams  upon  his  back  so  he 
could  carry  him  without  giving  him  so  much  pain. 

"Jake,  you  look  terrible,  this  is  killing  you.  Can't 
you  leave  me  here  until  you  get  help  to  take  me  in  ?" 

"No,  we  wont  take  no  chances.    The  In j  ins  might 


48  STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

find  you.  I'm  all  right,  I'm  gittin'  stronger  every 
minit.  Did  I  fall  down  with  you  ary  time,  old  boy?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Williams,  "I  have  been 
dreaming  most  of  the  time.  I  thought  I  was  on  an 
ocean  voyage,  going  around  the  horn.  Sometimes 
the  billows  were  terrible;  then  it  would  seem  we 
were  going  down  to  the  bottom  of  the  ocean.  I  ex- 
pect that  was  when  you  were  crawling  over  some 
big  logs." 

"That's  it,"  said  Jake,  "the  Diggers  chased  me 
up  and  down  the  hills  so  much  it  is  a  wonder  you 
didn't  git  sea  sick.  Our  grub's  all  gone  but  whin 
it  gits  light  I'll  kill  a  deer  and  maybe  ye  can  eat  some 
breakfast  with  me.  O,  we're  all  right.  We'll  git 
thar,  I  tell  ye.  I'm  stronger  than  I  was  when  we 
started." 

With  these  cheerful  words,  Jake  beguiled  the 
wounded  man  of  his  pain  and  made  light  of  his  own 
fatigue,  but  his  haggard  face  showed  the  terrible 
exertions  he  had  undergone.  He  had  a  will  equal 
to  his  monstrous  form  and  courage  which  nothing 
but  death  could  conquer. 

The  storm  had  passed  away  and  the  moon  shone 
clear.  Again,  they  went  forward.  Before  sunrise, 
Jake  killed  a  fine  fat  deer  and,  building  a  small  fire, 
soon  prepared  their  breakfast.  He  did  it  ample 


A  TEST  OF  COURAGE  49 

justice  but  Williams  had  relapsed  into  a  semi-uncon- 
scious state  from  which  he  could  not  be  aroused. 

"Dead  or  alive  I'll  carry  him  home,"  said  Jake 
as  he  again  took  his  inanimate  comrade  on  his  back 
and  trudged  on. 

No  Indians  were  seen  during  the  day.  When 
night  came  Jake  was  still  making  his  way  slowly 
toward  the  settlement.  He  was  wasted  and  worn, 
his  clothes  were  torn  into  shreds,  his  feet  were 
nearly  bare ;  but  still  he  toiled  on,  shaping  his  course 
only  by  the  stars. 

When  morning  dawned  again,  he  was  on  top  of 
a  high  mountain,  in  sight  of  the  little  valley  which 
held  his  home.  He  frequently  examined  Williams, 
who  still  breathed  but  gave  no  other  sign  of  life. 

"Dead  or  alive,  I'll  carry  him  home,"  repeated 
Jake.  But  now  Jake's  strength  began  to  fail.  His 
step  was  unsteady  and  knees  trembled  as  he  walked. 
Few  men  who  have  ever  lived  could  have  endured 
what  he  had.  But  his  courage  never  wavered.  Once, 
after  climbing  a  steep  hill,  he  sunk  to  the  ground 
exhausted.  After  a  moment  he  rose,  muttering  to 
himself,  "We'll  either  both  go  home  together  or  both 
stay  in  the  mountains."  He  left  his  rifle,  trusting 
to  his  revolver,  and  staggered  on.  When  within  five 
miles  of  home  he  suddenly  came  upon  an  Indian 
camp  and  was  overjoyed  to  find,  instead  of  being 


50  STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

hostile  Diggers,  they  were  a  friendly  family  with 
whom  he  was  acquainted  and  who  belonged  to  an- 
other tribe  who  had  never  taken  up  arms  against 
the  whites.  Even  these  Indians,  inured  as  they  were 
to  sights  of  suffering,  threw  up  their  hands  in 
horror  when  they  saw  approaching  their  camp,  this 
wasted  mountain  giant  with  his  apparently  lifeless 
load  upon  his  back.  They  soon  rallied,  however,  and 
set  about  to  restore  Williams.  Hedden  was  for  a 
time  too  much  exhausted  to  assist,  but  lay  on  the 
ground  watching  their  application  of  medical  skill. 
First  they  bathed  his  face  and  poured  into  his  mouth 
a  few  drops  of  some  kind  of  medicine;  then  a  very 
old  Indian  came  out  of  the  lodge  with  a  dried  bladder 
which  held  some  beans  and  small  pebbles.  This 
was  the  doctor  or  medicine  man.  He  had  hurriedly 
made  his  toilet  by  divesting  himself  of  all  his  cloth- 
ing except  a  breechclout  and  putting  some  stripes 
of  vermillion  paint  on  his  face,  he  held  the  bladder 
in  his  right  hand  while  his  left  grasped  a  stick  about 
two  feet  long,  ornamented  with  strips  of  bright  col- 
ored cloth.  He  danced  around  the  wounded  man, 
rattling  the  beans  in  the  bladder  and  waving  the 
tassled  stick  while  he  muttered  something  in  his 
own  language.  After  ten  minutes  Williams  opened 
his  eyes  and  looked  about  in  much  astonishment. 
Hedden  was  at  his  side  and  explained  their  deliver- 


A  TEST  OF  COURAGE  51 

ance.  The  doctor  was  highly  pleased  when  his  pati- 
ent recovered  consciousness.  He  was  probably  not 
more  at  a  loss  to  know  which  of  his  efforts  or 
medicines  had  proved  successful  than  has  been  many 
another  doctor  of  more  genteel  appearance  and  elab- 
orate apparel. 

The  Indians  knew  the  nature  of  the  poison  used 
by  the  Diggers  on  their  arrows  and  knew  how  to 
treat  Williams'  wound.  By  the  next  morning  he 
was  much  revived  and  a  litter  was  constructed  and 
the  Indians  cheerfully  aided  Hedden  to  take  the 
wounded  man  to  his  house. 

"We  cum  home  together,  Mary,"  said  Jake,  "but 
it  was  a  tight  squeeze,  my  gal.  We  cum  purty  nigh 
leaving'  our  bones  for  the  cayotes  to  pick." 

Jake's  boy  crowed  with  delight  when  his  father 
gave  him  the  bright,  yellow  nuggets  of  gold  taken 
from  old  "Scar  Face."  Any  one  could  see  Mary 
Hedden  had  never  been  prouder  of  her  big  husband 
than  she  was  at  that  time. 

"Didn't  I  tell  you  Jake  would  -stay  with  you  if  you 
got  hurt?  I  knowed  jist  what  he'd  do  but  I  recken 
you've  got  to  know  him  by  this  time." 

"That  I  have,"  answered  Williams  from  his  cot 
where  he  was  resting  comfortably.  "He  has  more 
man  in  him  than  any  one  I  ever  saw  before.  If  he 
hadn't  been  half  a  dozen  men  in  one  I  would  not 


52  STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

be  alive  now.  I  can  well  believe  he  pulled  old  Brin 
out  of  the  well  from  the  way  he  ran  over  the  moun- 
tains with  me  on  his  back  when  the  Diggers  were 
after  us.  I  can  never  forget  Jake.  If  I  ever  make 
anything  I  intend  to  share  it  with  him  and  you." 

Williams'  wound  healed  very  rapidly  but  Jake 
regained  his  strength  slowly.  His  iron  frame  had 
been  taxed  to  its  utmost  limit  and  it  was  many  days 
before  he  recovered  from  that  terrible  tramp. 

Now,  so  far  as  this  adventure  of  our  prospectors 
with  the  Digger  Indians  is  concerned,  this  story 
might  end  and  properly  does  end  here,  but  we  im- 
agine the  reader  has  become  interested  in  the  prin- 
cipal characters  and  would  like  to  know  what  time 
held  in  store  for  them.  The  whole  course  of  promi- 
nent actors,  in  whatever  department  of  life,  whether 
they  be  animals  or  human  beings,  must  be  inter- 
esting. 

We  cannot  follow  the  characters  introduced  here 
through  the  whole  of  their  not  uneventful  lives,  nor 
particularly  trace  the  footprints  of  time  in  the 
changes  and  developments  which  have  taken  place 
in  the  persons  and  scenes  described.  The  opening 
of  our  sketch  has  given  a  glimpse  of  one  phase  of 
pioneer  life  in  Oregon;  its  closing  chapter  can  only 
sum  up  the  effect  of  time  on  all  mentioned. 

Over  forty  years  have  passed  since  the  heroic  de- 


A  TEST  OF  COURAGE  53 

fense  of  and  masterly  retreat  from  the  little  fort  on 
the  Sixes  river.  Its  granite  walls  have  endured  the 
storms  and  are  standing  still.  When  last  visited, 
white  fleeced  sheep  were  grazing  about  among  the 
fern  where  the  Digger  Indian  lay  secreted  with  his 
poisoned  arrows,  and  a  harmless  army  of  frolicsome 
lambs  had  sought  the  walls  for  shelter  from  the 
noonday  sun.  The  little  flat,  just  above  the  river, 
where  Williams  received  the  poisoned  arrow,  was 
converted  into  a  picket-walled  garden  where  beans, 
peas  and  potatoes  flourished,  the  latter  reminding 
one  of — 
"I'm  a  careless  potato  and  care  not  a  pin 

How  into  existence  I  came; 

Whether   they  planted   me   lengthwise   or   dibbled 
me  in, 

To  me  'tis  exactly  the  same. 
The  bean  and  the  pea  may  more  loftily  tower; 

I  care  not  a  button  for  them; 
Defiance  I  nod  with  my  beautiful  flower 

When  the  earth  is  hoed  up  to  my  stem." 

A  worn  and  battered  house  stands  where  Hedden 
and  Williams  sunk  their  first  prospect  hole  and  part 
of  one  of  the  trees  they  fell  to  construct  their  dam 
is  still  lying  on  the  bank  of  the  river.  A  neat  cot- 
tage stands  at  the  upper  end  of  Bear  Flat,  which 
is  converted  into  a  well-kept  farm  and  bright-eyed 
and  rosy-cheeked  children  were  playing  with  mimic 


54  STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

boats  in  the  creek  at  the  very  spot  where  the  fierce 
grizzly  mother  and  her  offspring  fell. 

But  the  Digger  Indians,  where  are  they?  Finding 
themselves  crowded  on  all  sides,  while  their  idle 
habits  of  life  no  longer  furnished  a  subsistence,  they 
made  their  choice  between  labor  and  death.  They 
chose  to  die.  Rallying  all  their  forces,  in  1855,  they 
made  a  final  effort  against  the  encroachment  of  civil- 
ization by  murdering  indiscriminately,  men,  women, 
and  children  along  the  border.  The  midnight  torch 
blazed  throughout  Oregon  ;  but  few  of  the  little  set- 
tlements but  were  stained  with  the  blood  of  innocent 
women  and  children.  But  the  pioneers  were  not  to 
be  driven  back.  They  were  urged  by  an  impulse, 
stronger  even  than  that  of  their  own  brave  hearts. 
Such  men  as  Williams  and  Hedden,  armed  with 
trusty  rifles,  sprang  from  every  nook  and  corner. 
Southern  Oregon's  sister  settlement,_the 


valley,  poured  its  copious  floods  of  pioneer  valor  on 
Rogue  river  hills.  Beardless  boys  and  gray  haired 
men  mounted  their  ponies  and  rode  to  redress  the 
murder  of  their  neighbors.  Mothers,  daughters, 
wives,  and  sweethearts  bid  them  God  speed.  Blood 
flowed  in  many  a  hard  fought  battle  but  the  Diggers' 
doom  was  sealed.  In  less  than  twelve  months,  the 
remnant  of  the  tribe  was  taken  in  captivity  to  a 
reservation  to  perform  routine  or  menial  duty  about 


A  TEST  OF  COURAGE  55 

a  government  post.  Here  the  lover  of  the  Indian 
might  eulogize  him  in  a  mild  poem.  There  is  a  good 
opportunity  at  this  point  to  abuse  the  pioneer.  It 
must  be  dreadfully  sad  for  a  man  who  has  lived  all 
his  life  in  Boston,  and  earned  his  living  by  lecturing 
on  pschycology  and  mesmerism,  to  contemplate  the 
injustice  done  this  poor  Digger.  The  settlers  must 
have  been  to  blame.  The  Indian  would  have  always 
been  good  if  the  white  man  had  not  spoiled  him.  We 
can  only  say  the  Digger  perished  because  he  stood 
against  the  great  law  of  nature  and  of  nature's  God. 
"Thou  shalt  earn  thy  bread  by  the  sweat  of  thy 
brow."  He  went  out  against  the  hosts  of  the  Lord 
and  was  smitten.  Labor  offered  to  take  him  by  the 
hand;  he  refused  to  be  her  handmaiden;  she  made 
him  a  slave. 

The  fate  of  the  grizzly  is  no  less  pathetic  than 
that  of  the  Indian.  He  too  is  gone.  He  fell  like 
the  Indian,  fighting  for  the  home  of  his  fathers. 

The  Little  Sixes  river  still  rushes  its  unused 
waters  down  to  the  sea  though  its  banks  in  many 
places  have  been  cleared  to  make  room  for  thriv- 
ing homes  and  the  mountain  peaks,  about  its  rugged 
source,  now  echo  to  the  shrill  whistle  of  the 
engine  and  locomotive.  The  hunters  themselves  are 


56  STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

nearly  gone,  though  the  mild  eyed  deer  still  offers 
a  mark  for  his  rifle  near  the  mountain  tops. 

Through  all  these  changes,  time  has  been  kind 
to  Hedden  and  Williams.  As  the  years  went  by, 
Jake's  little  clearing  widened  into  an  ample  farm, 
his  cabin  gave  place  to  a  comfortable  home,  large 
enough  for  his  family  which  grew  from  three  to 
ten  rugged  boys  and  rosy-cheeked  girls,  though  Jake 
declares  none  of  his  boys  are  as  strong  as  he  was 
when  he  carried  his  load  from  Sixes  river,  or  the 
girls  as  handsome  as  was  their  mother  when  she 
tended  their  one  little  boy  while  he  went  to  find 
him  some  nuggets. 

Williams  never  married,  but  spent  a  useful  and 
cheerful  life.  He  was  five  times  elected  clerk  of 
Douglas  county,  and  was  always  popular  and  en- 
joyed the  love  and  respect  of  all  who  knew  him. 
When  he  passed  quietly  over  to  the  other  shore  a 
few  years  ago,  he  was  mourned  by  a  large  circle 
of  friends  who  had  reason  to  remember  him  as  one 
of  the  true  gentlemen  of  earth.  Through  life  he  had 
been  Hedden's  warmest  and  truest  friend.  By  his 
will  he  bequeathed  him  his  entire  fortune  of  over 
thirty  thousand  dollars. 


Adventures  in  the  Mines. 


in. 


Years  passed,  uneventful  to  me,  and  it  seemed, 
very  slowly,  though  to  Oregon,  important  develop- 
ments were  taking  place.  Year  after  year  immigra- 
tion poured  in,  and  neighbors  grew  thick  around  us. 
Hardy  sons  and  daughters  of  the  soil,  they  came 
with  willing  hands  to  help  to  rear  a  great  common- 
wealth, destined  to  be  one  of  the  brightest  stars  to 
adorn  the  emblem  of  our  country.  We  were  build- 
ing a  great  house  of  state,  a  social  and  political 
structure,  from  the  best  material  known  to  man. 

The  adventures,  trials,  and  dangers  of  the  plains 
had  given  me  a  restless  disposition,  and  I  was 
continually  longing  to  be  going  somewhere.  It 
seemed  I  could  hardly  bear  to  camp  twice  in  the 
same  place.  In  vain  was  I  put  to  different  kinds  of 
employment  and  sent  to  school;  I  was  not  content. 
I  wanted  to  be  hungry  again,  to  suffer,  and 
longed  for  the  thrill  of  excitement  on  seeing  strange 
things.  I  imagined  it  would  be  delightful  again  to 


58  STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

be  famishing  with  nothing  to  eat,  to  walk  barefooted 
in  the  hot  sands,  with  the  thorns  of  the  prickly  pear 
in  my  heels,  and  to  endure  all  that  once  seemed  so 
hard  to  bear.  If  there  had  been  other  plains  to 
cross,  how  gladly  I  would  have  encountered  their 
dangers.  But  there  were  none;  I  was  at  the  utmost 
verge  of  the  Western  land;  the  thunders  of  the 
Pacific  ocean,  when  the  storms  were  high,  could  be 
heard  floating  upon  the  Western  breeze,  and  I  had 
no  taste  for  the  ocean.  At  last,  after  nine  years 
filled  only  with  the  routine  of  farm  life,  an  oppor- 
tunity for  adventure  offered,  and  was  gladly  em- 
braced. 

In  the  spring  of  1861,  when  the  whole  Willamette 
valley  was  in  a  fever  of  metallic  excitement  about 
the  rich  placers  discovered  the  fall  before  by  Captain 
Pierce  in  the  northwestern  part  of  Idaho,  and  al- 
ready known  far  and  wide  as  the  Oro  Fino  mines, 
Thomas  Miller  and  myself  began  scraping  around 
the  upper  part  of  Linn  county  for  an  outfit. 

I  suppose  that  it  would  have  seemed  to  a  casual 
observer  that  we  had  nothing  requisite  thereto  but 
a  determination  to  go,  yet  we  soon  demonstrated 
how  much  this  could  accomplish.  Our  resources 
were  about  equal.  I  was  lame  from  a  recent  fall 
from  a  horse  and  in  debt  for  my  last  term  at  school. 
Thomas  owed  several  debts  and  had  a  large  family 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE   MINES  59 

dependent  upon  his  daily  labor.  I  traded  off  one 
of  my  father's  cows  for  a  pony;  he  called  upon  the 
Methodist  church  for  help.  I  told  my  creditors  I 
was  going  to  the  mines,  and  swapped  off  another 
cow.  I  kept  on  trading  my  father's  live  stock,  and 
Thomas  kept  on  with  his  exertions  until  his  prayer 
was  heard  by  his  pastor,  who  kindly  loaned  him  a 
horse  and  assisted  him  in  recommending  his  family 
to  the  mercy  of  heaven. 

Everything  which  devotion  and  ingenuity  could 
procure  was  at  last  in  readiness,  and  on  the  21st 
day  of  May  we  bid  adieu  to  home  and  loved  one, 
and  each  leading  a  pack-horse  well  loaded  with 
blankets,  provisions,  etc.,  we  started.  Thomas  be- 
ing an  old  man,  took  the  main  road,  but  I  rode  down 
to  the  school  house  to  bid  adieu  to  one  who  had  oc- 
cupied my  thoughts  of  late,  and  who  was  beginning 
to  creep  into  my  plans  for  the  future  in  the  queerest 
way.  She  taught  the  little  country  school,  and  al- 
though it  was  after  the  time  of  taking  up  school,  I 
found  the  children  at  play.  She  was  seated  on  a 
low  railing  of  a  little  bridge  near  the  school  house, 
for  I  had  promised  to  say  good-bye.  We  walked  on 
together  on  my  road  for  half  a  mile,  when  she  de- 
clared she  must  return.  I  took  her  hand  and  prom- 
ised to  come  back  to  her  in  the  fall,  and  she  promised 
— well,  no  matter. 

I  mounted  my  horse  and  rode  on.     Looking  back 


60  STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

I  saw  her  still  standing  in  the  road,  and  playfully 
told  her  to  run  back  to  school. 

"No,"  she  said,  "I  am  going  to  stand  here  until 
I  can  see  you  no  more,  for  when  you  go  out  of 
sight  over  the  next  hill,  I  shall  never  see  you  again." 

Laughingly  I  rode  on,  but  when  I  reached  the  hill- 
top, a  mile  away,  and  saw  her  standing  in  the  same 
spot,  a  strange  fear  came  over  me  and  I  wondered 
if  her  prophecy  could  come  true.  Ten  years  from 
that  time  I  again  rode  over  the  top  of  that  hill.  A 
mist  hid  the  spot  where  she  had  stood  to  watch  me 
go,  but  I  knew  where  to  seek  her,  and  as  I  stood 
where,  for  eight  years  the  grass  had  grown  and 
the  flowers  had  blossomed  upon  her  grave,  I  thought 
of  her  last  words  to  me,  and  of  her  short  journey 
and  my  long  wandering. 

I  soon  overtook  Thomas,  and  we  traveled  that  day 
among  the  new  settlements  along  the  upper  Cali- 
pooia  and  Santiam,  the  sole  improvements  in  many 
places  being  a  log  cabin  not  even  surrounded  by  a 
fence.  One  of  our  packhorses,  an  old  bobtailed 
veteran  of  the  Cayuse  war,  soon  became  tired;  in 
fact  he  was  tired  when  we  first  started,  and  I  turned 
him  loose  and  drove  him.  He  was  a  curiosity  worth 
the  study  of  a  philosopher.  He  had  one  habit  which 
would  have  puzzled  Socrates  himself.  The  moment 
he  espied  a  cabin  he  would  leave  the  road  and  start 


A  SCENE  ON  THE   SANTIAM 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE   MINES  61 

for  it  on  the  run ;  of  course  I  would  try  to  overtake 
him,  but  old  as  he  was,  on  such  an  occasion  he  was 
never  outrun.  On  reaching  the  cabin  and  finding 
me  in  pursuit,  he  would  go  around  it  at  a  furious 
rate,  greatly  alarming  the  inmates,  who,  having  no 
windows  to  their  cabins,  could  not  see  us  coming  and 
were  wholly  unprepared  for  such  an  onset. 

One  poor  woman,  on  being  attacked  in  this  man- 
ner, left  her  two  children  in  the  door  and  ran  out 
in  the  yard.  As  Bob  and  I  came  tearing  around 
the  house,  she  was  cut  off  from  her  children  and 
nearly  frightened  to  death.  Suddenly  checking  my 
horse,  I  commenced  to  explain,  when  Bob,  who  no 
doubt  thinking  he  was  still  pursued,  came  charging 
around,  and  in  his  fright  at  meeting  us,  very  nearly 
trampled  upon  the  now  speechless  woman.  She  re- 
covered herself  in  a  moment  and  darted  for  the 
door.  As  she  gathered  a  child  under  each  arm  and 
closed  the  door  with  her  foot,  I  heard  her  ejaculate, 
"0,  my  God!"  Thomas  secured  Bob,  and  a  moment 
later  I  opened  the  door,  but  the  violent  sobbing  of 
the  three  prevented  their  hearing  my  apology,  and 
we  went  on  feeling  very  much  annoyed  by  the  oc- 
currence. 

We  stopped  at  night  with  a  settler  in  the  Sweet 
Home  valley.  We  made  his  acquaintance  by  chas- 
ing Bob  a  couple  of  times  around  his  house;  and 


62  STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

his  timely  appearance,  armed  with  a  poker,  alone 
prevented  Bob  from  being  the  first  of  our  company 
to  claim  a  night's  shelter  within  the  dwelling.  We 
cannot  understand  the  cogitations  of  a  horse,  but  I 
suppose  that  Bob  had  once  been  fed  and  sheltered, 
and  that  dim  visions  of  sweet  oats  and  ambrosial 
hay  and  a  warm  stall  came  into  his  head  whenever 
he  saw  a  house.  Poor  old  Bob !  His  bones  have  long 
since  bleached  on  the  plains  near  White  Pine,  but  I 
have  not  forgotten  him  nor  his  effectual  but  indirect 
way  of  benefiting  mankind.  I  believe  he  has  cured 
several  chronic  grumblers  by  showing  them  the 
funny  side  of  things,  and  no  one  ever  saw  one  of 
his  circular  performances  without  laughing  heartily 
every  time  he  thought  of  him  and  his  peristent 
efforts  to  escape  labor  and  find  a  stable. 

At  supper,  among  other  things,  we  had  what  I 
feel  assured  but  few  mortals  have  ever  tasted — 
fern  pie.  It  was  made  of  the  tender  and  nutritious 
stalks  of  young  fern,  and  was  very  nice.  Thomas 
was  surprised,  but  said  the  Lord  was  very  good  and 
wise,  and  had  undoubtedly  clothed  the  hills  and 
valleys  with  the  delicious  plant  in  order  that  the 
coming  generation  might  be  supplied  with  food  and 
never  be  without  a  supply  of  good  pie. 

That  night  he  wrote  a  letter  to  his  wife,  telling 
her  of  our  discovery,  and  saying  he  believed  old  Bob 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE   MINES  63 

to  have  been  an  humble  instrument  in  the  hand  of 
Divine  Providence,  to  direct  us  to  that  house,  where- 
by we  learned  the  value  of  the  most  plentiful  plant 
in  the  universe.  He  directed  her  to  experiment  with 
it  as  food,  in  different  forms,  and  said  he  felt  re- 
lieved of  all  further  anxiety  about  her  and  the  chil- 
dren, and  should  go  forward  with  a  lighter  heart. 
I  have  mentioned  these  pies  with  some  reluctance, 
for  we  got  into  serious  trouble  about  them.  I  have 
had  more  than  one  hard  fight  to  establish  my  verac- 
ity, and  Thomas  has  frequently  resorted  to  prayer 
to  soothe  his  wounded  feeling  on  being  called  a  liar ; 
and  all  because  we  said  we  had  eaten  fern  pies.  How 
reluctant  the  world  is  to  believe  the  truth !  I  believe 
these  pies  are  now  extinct  and  their  making  a  lost 
art,  unless,  happily,  a  recipe  has  been  preserved 
among  the  early  settlers  of  Sweet  Home  valley. 

From  this  place  we  started  directly  into  the  moun- 
tains, following  the  trail  of  a  party  several  days 
ahead  and  bound  for  the  same  destination  as  our- 
selves. It  soon  became  evident  that  they  were  nov- 
ices in  mountain  travel,  or  lunatics,  for  they  wound 
around  and  went  back  and  forth  on  the  head  waters 
of  the  Santiam  until  we  lost  all  patience,  as  in  fol- 
lowing them  we  often  found,  after  traveling  half 
a  day,  that  we  had  made  but  a  few  hundred  yards' 
progress  toward  the  summit.  Once  we  went  around 


64  STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

a  small  timbered  butte  four  times.  The  first  time 
around  I  told  Thomas  I  believed  we  were  traveling 
in  a  circle,  the  second  I  insisted,  and  the  third  I  laid 
my  old  gun  on  a  log,  declaring  I  would  leave  it  there 
unless  we  came  that  way  again.  Thomas  lectured 
me  all  the  way  around  the  circle  about  leaving  my 
gun,  and  about  my  foolishness  in  not  placing  con- 
fidence in  him  who  was  so  much  older  than  myself, 
and  who  had  traveled  in  the  mountains  all  his  life 
without  ever  losing  the  points  of  the  compass.  He 
was  going  on  in  this  strain  when  I  came  to  the  gun ; 
I  pretended  not  to  see  it,  rode  past,  and  let  Thomas 
find  it.  There  was  no  disputing  this  evidence,  and 
he  acknowledged  himself  in  error.  His  defeat  was 
only  temporary,  however,  for  we  had  gone  but  a 
couple  of  miles  when  we  came  to  a  large  fir  tree, 
recently  blown  down,  when  he  said  if  we  had  not 
been  providentially  hindered  we  should  probably 
now  be  buried  beneath  its  mighty  weight. 

We  were  now  traveling  without  a  trail  and  fol- 
lowing up  the  ridges  towards  the  summit  of  the 
mountain,  and  soon  came  to  deep  snow.  It  was  very 
hard,  and  we  moved  along  at  a  lively  gait,  leaving 
but  little  trail  behind.  We  camped  at  night  upon 
the  snow,  fed  our  horses  some  flour,  and  made  our 
beds  of  fir  boughs.  Our  campfire  lit  up  the  sur- 
rounding objects,  and  when  the  moon  rose  over  the 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE   MINES  65 

snow-clad  peaks,  they  shone  up  grandly  magnificent. 
On  the  surface  the  snow  had  lost  its  ordinary  ap- 
pearance, the  constant  freezing  and  thawing  having 
crystalized  it  into  beautiful  forms  the  size  of  peas, 
and  clear  as  ice;  and  the  roots  of  the  dark  old  fir 
trees  were  girdled  that  night  in  the  moonlight  with 
pearls  which,  for  beauty  of  lustre  and  finish,  were 
equal  to  any  worn  by  the  fabled  monarchs  of  old. 

The  next  day,  as  we  ascended  the  mountain,  the 
snow  grew  deeper,  sometimes  to  ten  or  twelve  feet 
deep,  and  once  we  crossed  a  canyon  on  a  natural 
bridge  of  snow  which  had  drifted  in  by  the  winds 
to  a  depth  of  over  one  hundred  feet.  The  warmer 
vapors  arising  from  the  small  stream  had  thawed 
it  half  way  up,  leaving  a  splendid  arch,  settled  and 
condensed  by  its  own  weight  until  an  army  might 
have  passed  over  it  with  perfect  safety.  The  upper 
side  of  the  bridge  lay  against  the  side  of  a  rocky 
bluff  and  had  no  opening  underneath,  but  turning 
down  after  crossing,  we  had  a  splendid  view  of 
the  lower  side,  which  showed  what  a  master  mason 
Nature  is  when  she  tries  her  hand,  and  I  wondered 
why  she  so  carefully  hides  her  grandest  works  from 
man,  that  they  are  only  found  after  long  toil  or 
accident,  and  are  never  seen  by  the  multitude.  We 
were  nearing  the  summit,  and  strange  to  tell,  sud- 
denly came  into  a  beautiful  little  valley  of  perhaps 


66  STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

forty  acres,  green  with  grass,  dotted  with  flowers, 
and  surrounded  on  all  sides  with  snow.  It  may  have 
been  that  the  rays  of  the  sun,  reflected  from  the  sur- 
rounding snow  peaks,  had  centered  upon  this  little 
mountain  glen  and  warned  the  pearls  spoken  of  be- 
fore, to  take  their  way  heavenward  to  escape  the 
tread  of  bear  and  deer,  for  we  found  both  on  this 
green  spot;  and  before  our  tired  horses  were  un- 
saddled the  mountain  tops  had  echoed  to  the  crack 
of  my  rifle,  and  within  half  an  hour  we  were  at 
supper,  with  venison  steak  occupying  a  prominent 
place  on  our  frugal  green-sward  board. 

Much  refreshed,  we  started  on  the  following 
morning  at  sunrise  from  our  delightful  camp.  Go- 
ing eastward  we  soon  passed  the  summit  and  com- 
menced to  descend.  The  snow  was  melting  fast 
on  the  eastern  slope,  and  many  streams  were  swol- 
len, offering  formidable  barriers  to  our  progress, 
but  we  had  placed  the  hoary  headed  mountain  be- 
neath our  feet,  and  were  not  to  be  frightened  by  the 
perspiration  streaming  from  his  brow.  On  we  went, 
sliding,  wading,  swimming,  for  a  weary  day. 
Emerging  from  the  snow  somewhere  near  where  the 
wagon  road  now  leaves  the  mountain,  we  were  glad 
to  camp  on  dry  ground  and  see  our  horses  knee  deep 
in  the  finest  of  grass.  At  this  place  we  found  an 
old  Indian  trail  leading  south,  and  followed  it 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE   MINES  67 

through  some  of  the  finest  pine  timber  I  ever  saw. 
It  stands  on  nearly  level  land,  so  thick  as  to  exclude 
underbrush  for  miles  in  extent,  and  will,  when  a 
railroad  shall  have  reached  it,  be  the  largest  and 
most  profitable  lumber  camp  on  this  coast.  As  pine 
is  not  so  thickly  branched  as  fir,  the  sun  is  not  ex- 
cluded from  these  groves,  and  grass  covers  the 
ground.  May  the  time  speedily  come  when  these 
mighty  trees  will  echo  the  sound  of  the  logger's  axe, 
and  the  iron  horse  shall  pant  upon  the  mountain- 
side, richly  freighted  with  the  products  of  this  plain. 
We  camped  at  night  upon  a  small  stream  which, 
we  judged,  emptied  into  the  Deschutes.  It  was  a 
beautiful  evening,  and  after  we  had  unsaddled  our 
horses,  Thomas  proposed  to  have  prayers.  We  knelt 
down,  and  he  gave  thanks  for  our  safe  passage 
through  so  many  dangers,  and  was  begging  for  Di- 
vine guidance  in  our  future  travels,  when  the  loud 
report  of  a  rifle  rang  through  the  camp.  Thomas 
fell  upon  his  face,  and  with  one  bound  I  was  within 
the  bushes  and  underneath  the  bank  of  the  little 
creek.  Peeping  out,  I  saw  Thomas  still  flat  upon  the 
ground,  but  not  dead,  for  he  was  crawling  towards 
me.  As  soon  as  he  reached  me  I  asked  him  where 
he  was  hit.  He  said  in  the  face.  I  could  see  no 
mark.  His  eyes  were  tightly  closed,  having  been 
filled  with  sand  and  dirt,  and  he  was  spitting  dirt 


68  STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

from  his  throat  and  mouth,  but  no  blood  anywhere; 
he  was  unhurt.  We  crouched  down  close,  and  tried 
to  think  what  we  should  do.  We  knew  that  we  had 
been  fired  upon  by  Indians.  They  could  have  been 
but  a  few  rods  away,  but  neither  of  us  had  seen 
them.  The  horses  had  stampeded  at  the  first  shot, 
and  we  were  left  alive,  it  is  true,  but  in  a  very  dan- 
gerous situation. 

As  soon  as  Thomas  could  get  his  eyes  open,  I  told 
him  to  get  the  gun  and  bullets.  He  declined,  and 
told  me  to  put  my  trust  in  heaven.  I  did  so,  but 
glanced  again  in  the  direction  of  my  gun.  I  was 
beginning  to  recover  myself  and  to  think  of  self- 
defense,  when  my  blood  was  frozen  by  seeing  a  fire 
start  up  in  the  grass  a  few  feet  beyond  our  camp. 
Instantly  I  saw  that  we  were  to  be  roasted  alive, 
as  the  grass  would  undoubtedly  be  fired  all  around 
us  by  the  red  devils,  whom  we  could  not  even  see. 
I  nomas  was  praying.  A  frantic  desire  to  live  made 
me  desperate;  I  would  not  die  within  reach  of  my 
gun  without  firing  a  shot.  I  sprang  above  the  bank, 
seized  my  gun  and  shot  pouch,  and  was  again  behind 
the  breastworks.  An  idea  struck  me.  I  placed  my 
mouth  over  the  muzzle  of  the  gun,  when  Thomas, 
mistaking  my  intentions,  begged  me  not  to  leave  him 
alone.  I  blew  down  the  barrel;  it  was  empty.  I 
ran  out  and  extinguished  the  fire,  which  had  already 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE   MINES  69 

reached  our  blankets,  and  told  Thomas  to  come  out 
and  be  a  man;  he  only  prayed  the  louder.  Then  I 
told  him  that  we  had  been  fired  upon  by  our  own  gun. 
He  raised  his  head,  hesitated,  started  to  come,  then 
stepped  back  and  wanted  to  know  who  set  the  grass 
on  fire.  I  said  it  must  have  been  a  flash  of  the 
powder. 

When  we  had  knelt  down  to  pray,  the  horses  were 
feeding  slowly  away  from  where  they  had  been 
turned  loose.  Old  Bob  had  a  long  rope  tied  to  his 
neck;  he  must  have  dragged  it  across  the  hammer 
of  the  gun  in  such  a  manner  as  to  discharge  it,  and, 
as  it  was  lying  upon  some  blankets,  with  the  muzzle 
near  the  dry  grass,  the  flash  kindled  the  fire  which 
gave  me  the  second  alarm. 

The  reader  may  Imagine  our  joy  on  thus  being 
delivered  from  torture,  for  it  was  deliverance  as 
true  as  any  which  ever  came  to  a  beleaguered  city. 
The  worst  torture  is  that  of  the  mind,  and  we  had 
endured  dreadful  fears  and  most  frightful  fancies. 
It  is  strange  what  thoughts  will  pervade  one's  mind 
at  such  a  time.  While  trying  to  keep  my  head  below 
the  bank  to  avoid  a  bullet,  I  actually  fancied  my 
friends  crying  over  the  newspaper  account  of  my 
horrible  death. 

I  soon  recovered  my  former  spirits;  not  so  with 
Thomas.  In  fact  I  do  not  believe  he  ever  fully 


70  STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

forgot  his  dreadful  scare.  He  seemed  to  only  half 
believe  that  it  was  a  false  alarm,  and  kept  casting 
his  eyes  cautiously  around,  as  though  expecting  a 
murderous  attack  at  any  moment.  His  apprehen- 
sions were  painful  to  behold.  He  would  never  take 
an  open  direct  route  to  any  point  he  wished  to  go 
to,  if  he  could  reach  it  by  a  circuitous  or  concealed 
one.  The  next  morning  he  went  for  the  horses  while 
I  prepared  breakfast.  He  soon  returned  and  de- 
clared that  the  horses  had  been  stolen;  he  had  fol- 
lowed them  about  a  mile,  until  he  was  convinced  that 
they  were  in  the  hands  of  the  Indians — two  squaws 
and  a  buck.  Believing  that  he  mistook  the  signs,  I 
started  out  to  reconnoiter.  I  do  not  wish  it  to  be 
understood  that  I  was  not  afraid;  on  the  contrary, 
I  was  alert  to  the  slightest  sound,  a  falling  twig  or 
the  flit  of  a  bird's  wing  made  my  heart  stand  still 
and  my  hand  nervously  clutch  my  gun.  What  if 
Thomas  were  correct!  The  Indians  might  await  my 
coming  in  some  secluded  spot,  and  then  they  would 
not  allow  me  the  privilege  of  unconditional  sur- 
render. I  must  fight. 

Squaws  do  not  carry  guns.  I  wondered  if  they 
were  young  and  pretty,  and  thought  that  if  the  buck 
was  disposed  of  I  might  capture  them  without  blood- 
shed. I  concluded  to  shoot  the  old  fellow  just  as  he 
was  raising  his  tomahawk,  and  then  strike  an  atti- 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE   MINES  71 

tude  before  his  daughters.  In  this  pleasant  train  of 
thought  I  raised  my  eyes  from  the  ground  to  con- 
front the  maidens,  and  saw  our  stolen  ponies.  They 
were  soon  in  camp,  and  packing  up,  we  set  out  on 
our  journey.  We  crossed  the  Deschutes  river  some 
distance  below  the  Prineville  road.  After  traveling 
several  miles  down  stream  we  recrossed,  and  fol- 
lowing a  good  trail,  soon  came  to  the  Warm  Springs 
reservation. 

As  usual  with  these  curiosities  of  art,  it  was 
beautifully  situated  and  had  the  requisite  number 
of  government  employes,  spotted  horses,  Indians, 
etc.  Why  is  it  that  there  is  always  a  lot  of  Indians 
about  a  reservation?  The  blighting  influence  of 
their  indolent  lives  and  filthy  habits  is  felt  in  every 
reservation  in  the  United  States,  and  it  is  all  wrong. 
They  should  go  away  and  give  the  agents  an  oppor- 
tunity to  cultivate  their  natural  taste  for  ease.  If 
the  government  must  have  reservations,  let  it  see 
that  men  whose  political  services  have  entitled  them 
to  be  placed  on  them  are  not  annoyed  by  a  lot  of 
dirty,  thieving  Indians.  This  is  a  fine  field  for  re- 
form. Let  us  purge  these  sanctuaries  of  innocence 
from  the  polluting  tread  of  the  Indian.  Let  the 
jabber  of  the  squaw  no  more  be  heard  about  the 
suttler's  store.  This  accomplished,  the  agents  might 
become  a  credit  to  their  race,  and  in  the  lapse  of 


72  STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

time  might  be  gathered  together  and  settled  in  the 
Yellowstone  Park.  This  would  not  prove  expensive, 
and  the  nation  would  remunerate  itself  by  exhibit- 
ing them  as  natural  curiosities. 

At  this  place,  in  addition  to  those  already  men- 
tioned, we  found  quite  a  number  of  Webfeet,  who 
had  crossed  the  mountain  before  us,  waiting  for  the 
Deschutes  to  fall  before  attempting  to  cross.  We 
soon  organized  by  electing  a  captain,  and  on  the 
second  day  after  our  arrival,  procuring  an  Indian 
guide,  we  crossed  the  swollen  river  in  canoes,  swim- 
ming our  horses,  and  started  for  the  Malheur  river, 
the  place  where  tradition  says  tons  of  gold  were 
found  by  some  lost  emigrants  in  an  early  day,  but 
who  had  reached  the  settlement  half  starved,  and 
reported  that  one  could  easily  pick  up  a  bucketful 
of  gold  in  a  few  minutes.  Hence  the  name  of  Blue 
Bucket  mines,  which  has  been  discussed  in  every 
miner's  cabin  from  California  to  the  Rocky  moun- 
tains. 

We  paid  our  guide  $150  for  his  services,  and  he 
rode  at  the  head  of  our  column  of  men  with  all  the 
pride  of  a  soldier  for  two  days,  when  a  change 
seemed  to  come  over  the  spirit  of  his  dream,  and  see- 
ing only  days  of  fatigue  and  discomfort  in  front, 
and  days  of  ease  and  comfort  behind,  he,  on  the 
third  morning  out,  turned  his  horse  and  rode  swiftly 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE   MINES  73 

toward  the  agency.  We  saw  his  game  instantly  and 
gave  pursuit,  but  our  horses  were  jaded  with  cross- 
ing the  mountain,  and  he  had  no  doubt  selected  the 
best  horse  on  the  reservation,  and  we  were  unable 
to  catch  him.  Several  shots  were  fired  at  his  noble 
form,  but  he  only  went  the  faster,  and  after  a  great 
amount  of  swearing  we  realized  that  we  had  lost  an 
Indian  and  felt  correspondingly  sad.  We  had  rea- 
son, too,  for  he  was  paid  in  advance.  "Lo,  the 
poor  Indian" — did  anyone  ever  know  him  to  fulfill 
a  trust  when  it  was  not  his  selfish  interest  to  do  so? 
Being  thus  left  alone,  we  concluded  to  abandon 
the  route  to  the  Blue  Bucket  diggings,  and  go  to 
Oro  Fino.  Turning  to  the  left,  after  a  day's  travel, 
we  came  to  an  old  emigrant  road,  near  the  crossing 
of  the  John  Day.  From  there  we  traveled  over 
plains  and  low  rolling  hills,  whose  rich  soil  fur- 
nished everywhere  the  most  luxuriant  grass,  and 
has  since  burdened  the  waters  of  the  mighty  Co- 
lumbia with  its  grain-laden  vessels,  and  is  today  de- 
manding in  thunder  tones  the  more  perfect  opening 
of  its  outlet  to  the  sea.  We  were  traveling  up  this 
grand  river,  whose  bosom  bore  only  the  Indian 
canoe  with  its  worthless  freight,  through  an  em- 
pire where  a  sod  was  never  turned  and  solitude  held 
sway,  broken  only  by  the  howl  of  the  coyote  or  the 
neigh  of  the  worthless  Indian  pony.  Who  can  view 


74  STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

the  changes  which  have  since  taken  place  in  the  Co- 
lumbia basin,  and  sigh  for  the  days  that  are  gone? 
Then  I  could  have  carried  its  exports  in  my  saddle 
bags;  now  corporations,  with  millions  invested,  are 
wrestling  with  each  other  for  the  carrying  of  its 
mighty  products.  Industry  invades  the  realms  of 
idleness,  the  lazy  Indian  leaves  the  land,  where  for 
centuries  he  has  been  a  beast,  and  our  army  marches 
on.  Its  weapons  were  moulded  by  reason  and  ex- 
perience, and  its  discipline  is  Nature's  laws.  The 
iron  horse  announces  its  advance,  and  ocean  palaces 
bear  its  equipments.  Forests,  trembling,  fall  to 
the  ground  and  come  from  the  mountain  tops  to 
build  its  barracks,  and  the  soil,  upturned  by  its 
magic  touch,  furnishes  bread  to  the  world.  Who 
can  doubt  it  must  conquer  the  universe? 

We  traveled  along  the  old  emigrant  road  to  the 
Umatilla  river.  Here  we  found  another  one  of 
those  curses  of  civilization,  an  Indian  reservation. 
Here  again,  the  government  had  gathered  the  neigh- 
boring tribes  on  the  finest  agricultural  land  in  the 
region,  and  was  aiding  them  in  their  resolve  to  die 
rather  than  work.  Heroic  Indian !  I  saw  him  lying 
in  the  shade  of  the  thorn  bush  (the  only  fruit  tree 
of  his  home),  while  his  wife  tended  his  horse,  dug 
potatoes,  or  carried  wood  to  cook  his  scanty  meal. 
He  knew  us  to  be  the  picket  guard  of  the  army  that 


(By  courtesy  of  O.  R.  &N.) 
SCENE  ON  THE  O.  R.  &  N. 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE   MINES  75 

would  destroy  him,  and  was  not  annoyed.  He  saw 
our  superior  food,  clothing,  horses,  and  equipments, 
and  was  not  stimulated  to  action.  He  despised  to 
purchase  them,  for  their  price  was  labor.  If  a 
horse  excited  his  admiration,  visions  of  himself 
crawling  on  a  dark  night  to  steal  it  floated  through 
his  lazy  brain.  If  he  wanted  our  gun,  he  meditated 
a  midnight  approach  and  a  murderous  blow.  But 
our  army  surrounds  him,  and  he  must  go.  He  has 
too  long  cumbered  the  earth,  to  the  exclusion  of 
labor  and  science.  His  body  contains  elements  that 
should  go  back  to  the  soil  to  furnish  food  for  civ- 
ilized man.  He  will  only  live  in  history,  and  it  is 
hoped,  will  not  seriously  burden  that. 

Thirty  miles  from  Umatilla  we  came  to  Walla 
Walla  fort  and  town.  At  the  fort,  the  intellects  of 
a  few  companies  of  soldiers  were  being  dwarfed, 
and  the  men  rendered  unfit  for  any  noble  battle  in 
life,  for  the  purpose  of  preventing  a  few  squaws 
from  trading  dried  salmon  for  whisky.  This  traffic 
intercepted,  offers  the  soldier  better  facilities  for 
getting  drunk  than  he  could  find  in  any  other  depart- 
ment of  life. 

The  town,  a  small  village,  showed  the  spirit  of 
American  enterprise,  and  although  most  of  the 
buildings  were  of  logs,  yet  we  found  several  stores 
well  supplied  with  the  necessaries  of  life,  and  their 


76  STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

owners  anxiously  awaiting  the  settlement  of  the 
country.  After  a  day's  rest  with  our  horses  picketed 
on  the  outskirts  of  town,  we  set  forward  over  low, 
rolling  hills,  which  separated  Dry  creek,  Touchet, 
Tucanon,  Pataha,  Alpowa  and  Snake  rivers.  Two 
days'  travel  brought  us  to  Lewiston,  situated  on  the 
Snake  river,  at  the  mouth  of  the  Clearwater.  I  was 
surprised  to  find  a  little  town  composed  entirely  of 
canvas  tents.  On  inquiry,  I  learned  that  it  was  on 
another  reservation,  and  the  Indians  opposed  the 
erection  of  more  permanent  houses. 

Over  hills  and  low  mountains  again  for  two  days, 
and  we  came  to  Oro  Fino.  Who  can  describe  a  min- 
ing camp,  with  its  motley  crowd  and  nondescript 
improvements;  its  wealth  and  its  poverty;  its  so- 
briety and  its  recklessness;  its  poets,  philosophers 
and  statesman;  its  saloons  and  desperate  men;  its 
bacon  and  beans ;  its  rich  gulches  and  poverty  flats ; 
and  above  all,  its  wild  excitement?  To  stand  on 
ground  mixed  with  gold  will  craze  men's  soul  and 
render  them  the  very  embodiment  of  the  intensified 
good  and  evil  of  the  world.  All  the  natural  hatred 
men  feel  for  the  delays  of  courts  and  sophistry  of 
lawyers;  for  the  niggardly  reward  of  merit  and 
tardy  hand  of  justice,  here  find  scope  for  action.  A 
king  would  be  hung  for  any  minor  offense,  but  a 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE   MINES  77 

beggar  would  be  defended  in  a  right  by  every  drop 
of  blood  in  the  camp. 

The  first  man  I  met  among  this  fevered  crowd 
was  Oregon's  poet,  my  old  schoolmate,  Joaquin  Mil- 
ler. His  blue  eyes  sparkled  with  kindly  greeting, 
and  as  I  took  his  hand,  I  knew  by  its  quickened  pulse 
and  tightened  clasp  that  he,  too,  was  sharing  in  the 
excitement  of  the  gold  hunter.  He  was  then  in 
the  first  blush  of  manhood,  with  buoyant  spirits,  un- 
tiring energy,  and,  among  a  race  of  pioneers,  the 
bravest  of  the  brave.  He  was  accorded  more  than 
ordinary  talent,  and  looked  forward  with  hope  to  the 
battle  of  life,  expecting  to  reap  his  share  of  its 
honors  and  rewards.  For  years  he  was  foremost 
in  every  desperate  enterprise ;  crossing  snow-capped 
mountains,  swollen  rivers,  and  against  hostile  In- 
dians. When  the  snow  fell  fifteen  feet  deep  on  the 
Florence  mountain,  and  hundreds  were  penned  in 
camp  without  a  word  from  wives,  children  and  loved 
ones  at  home,  he  said:  "Boys,  I  will  bring  your 
letters  from  Lewiston."  Afoot  and  alone,  without 
a  trail,  he  crossed  the  mountain  tops,  the  dangerous 
streams,  the  wintry  desert  of  Camas  prairie,  fight- 
ing back  the  hungry  mountain  wolves,  and  came 
back  bending  beneath  the  weight  of  loving  messages 
from  home.  He  was  found  today,  in  defense  of 
the  weak,  facing  the  pistol  or  bowie  knife  of  the 


78  STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

desperado,  and  tomorrow  washing  the  clothes  and 
smoothing  the  pillow  of  a  sick  comrade.  We  all 
loved  him,  but  we  were  not  men  who  wrote  for  the 
newspapers  and  magazines,  and  his  acts  of  heroism 
and  kindness  were  unchronicled,  save  in  the  hearts 
of  those  who  knew  him  in  those  times,  and  under 
those  trying  circumstances. 

He  has  had  his  full  share  of  the  trials  of  life,  yet, 
through  all,  he  has  been  true  to  his  own  land.  He 
has  wooed  his  muse  and  tuned  his  lyre  across  the 
great  waters,  but  he  sung  of  his  boyhood  scenes,  of 
the  Pacific  coast,  its  rivers,  mountains,  and  men, 
and  he  has  been  true  to  all.  He  poetized  the  grandeur 
of  our  land  so  nobly  as  to  electrify  all  Europe,  the 
swelling  notes  of  his  praise  reaching  our  ears  from 
across  the  Atlantic. 

I  have  neglected  to  say  Thomas  grew  weary  of  our 
journey,  and  being  a  carpenter  by  trade,  concluded 
to  try  his  fortune  at  Walla  Walla;  so  we  divided  our 
provisions  and  blankets.  I  regretted  to  leave  him, 
for  although  wholly  unlike  in  disposition,  we  were 
much  attached  to  each  other,  and  shook  hands  at 
parting,  with  mutual  reluctance.  It  is  strange  to 
say  how  opposites  will  care  for  each  other.  I  have 
known  a  great,  strong,  courageous  man  to  have  for 
his  warmest  friend  a  little,  sickly,  puny  creature, 
possessed  of  neither  enterprise  nor  courage,  and  who 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE   MINES  79 

could  be  of  no  earthly  good  to  him  except  to  meekly 
allow  him  to  support  and  defend  him.  I  suppose  such 
friendships  might  be  termed  a  species  of  frontier 
marriage.  At  any  rate,  friends  and  partners  are 
chosen  in  the  mines  with  all  the  sublime  indifference 
to  results  which  characterize  marriages  between 
the  sexes.  There  are  many  men  in  the  mines  who 
would  become  rich  if  it  were  not  for  their  partners, 
and  there  are  many  partners  in  the  settlement  who 
would  get  rich  if  it  were  not  for  their  man.  What 
benevolence  there  is  in  this  law  of  selection! 

If  it  were  not  so,  we  should  have  two  classes — 
paupers  and  millionaires. 

After  looking  around  Oro  Fino  a  few  days,  and 
finding  all  claims  supposed  to  be  valuable  occupied, 
I  consented  to  go  with  an  acquaintance  whom  I  met, 
to  a  new  "find"  on  the  headwaters  of  the  South 
Clearwater.  He  had  just  returned  after  locating  a 
claim  and  reported  very  rich  diggings.  I  secured 
a  fresh  supply  of  provisions,  and  listening  to  his 
exciting  talk,  rode  along  feeling  certain  that  a  single 
range  of  mountains  was  all  that  separated  me  from 
a  fortune.  I  knew  so  little  of  mines  that  when  he 
told  me  that  a  man  had  picked  up  on  the  bedrock 
$10  in  about  twenty  minutes,  I  began  to  calculate 
how  much  I  could  pick  up  in  a  day,  working  four- 
teen hours  per  day  (which  I  resolved  to  do) .  I  could 


80  STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

make  $420;  this  was  very  good  wages.  I  felt  quite 
happy,  and  wondered  what  Thomas  would  say  when 
I  returned  to  Walla  Walla  with  my  horse  loaded 
down  with  gold  dust. 

I  resolved  to  give  him  a  good  share,  and  do  many 
other  benevolent  things,  besides  making  some  very 
pleasing  arrangements  for  myself. 

Alas — 

"The  best  laid  plans  of  mice  and  men 

Gang  aft  aglee, 
And  leave  us  naught  but  grief  and  pain 

For  promised  joy." 

Four  days'  travel  brought  us  to  the  new  camp. 
There  were  about  twenty  men,  mostly  engaged  in 
building  cabins  and  digging  ditches.  There  was 
no  excitement,  and  my  ardor  began  to  cool;  I  did 
not  like  the  looks  of  things.  The  men  seemed  to 
be  preparing  to  stay,  while  I  was  only  anxious  to 
secure  some  gold  and  return.  I  was  willing  to  stay 
a  few  weeks,  but  I  did  not  feel  like  making  any 
permanent  improvements.  I,  therefore,  pitched  my 
tent  and  commenced  my  search  for  gold.  Many 
years  have  passed,  and  I  am  still  searching.  I  find 
none  except  what  is  in  someone's  possession. 

Day  after  day  I  prospected,  and  found  only  mica 
and  isinglass  after  washing  away  the  dirt.  I  began 
to  realize  that  "all  is  not  gold  that  glitters."  Still 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE   MINES  81 

I  worked  on,  hoping  to  find  what  I  sought  at  the 
bottom  of  some  hole,  many  of  which  I  dug  with 
pick  and  shovel  in  the  bed  of  streams  and  gulches. 
Hope  was  strong,  yet  often  my  heart  sunk  within 
me,  when  after  toiling  all  day  I  found  nothing  on 
the  bedrock  but  sand  and  gravel.  In  the  meantime, 
hundreds  were  pouring  into  our  camp,  coming  it 
seemed,  from  all  quarters  of  the  world.  I  believe 
every  nation  on  earth  was  represented  in  that  camp 
within  three  months  of  its  discovery.  A  town  was 
located  on  Elk  creek,  and  launched  forth  on  the 
commercial  sea  under  the  name  of  Elk  City.  There 
were  no  surveyors  nor  architects  employed;  no 
steamboats  nor  locomotives  disturbed  its  inhabi- 
tants; yet  it  grew  so  fast  as  to  astonish  everyone 
except  the  old  miners.  Men  who  had  tramped  from 
camp  to  camp  since  'forty-nine"  complained  that  it 
grew  slow,  and  told  of  the  wonderful  growth  of  San 
Francisco,  Sacramento,  Yreka  and  other  mining 
towns  of  California.  After  laboring  diligently  a 
month  with  no  success,  I  purchased  a  claim  from  a 
gambler  who  had  taken  it  up  for  speculative  pur- 
poses, giving  him  in  payment  a  bedrock  note  for 
$200.  It  read :  "I  promise  to  pay  the  bearer  $200 
in  gold  dust  when  it  is  taken  out  of  claim  No.  54, 
over  and  above  grub."  These  notes  pass  current, 
and  anyone  who  would  attempt  to  attach  the  usual 


82  STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

condition  for  attorney's  fees,  would  be  dealt  with 
in  a  summary  manner,  and  according  to  miners' 
notions  of  justice. 

Many  claims  were  now  opened,  and  being  worked 
with  sluices,  paid  from  $25  to  $40  per  day  per  man. 
Excitement  ran  high.  A  graveyard  was  started,  and 
soon  became  a  popular  resort.  The  only  man  buried 
there  within  the  first  three  months  who  did  not 
have  a  bullet  hole  in  him  was  a  poor  minister,  who 
being  a  non-combatant,  was  unfit  for  honorable 
fight  and  was  knocked  in  the  head  with  a  whisky 
bottle,  and  buried  in  the  potter's  field,  "unwept,  un- 
honored  and  unsung." 

I  have  often  thought  of  that  poor  preacher  who 
lies  in  the  lower  corner  of  that  beautiful  mountain 
cemetery,  and  regretted  that  the  manner  of  his 
death  prevented  his  being  buried  on  the  more  rising 
ground  and  among  gentlemen.  It  must  not  be  sup- 
posed that  all  disputes  were  settled  with  the  pistol 
or  bowie  knife.  Peaceable-minded  men  were  always 
ready  to  leave  disputes  about  mining  affairs  to  a 
meeting  of  the  miners,  who  were  called  together  by 
notices  posted  at  prominent  points,  stating  the  ob- 
jects of  the  meeting,  and  signed  by  the  recorder  of 
the  district.  Such  meetings  were  always  well  at- 
tended and  orderly,  and  their  decisions  ranked  with 
those  of  the  supreme  court  of  the  United  States,  and 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE   MINES  83 

were  as  just  as  a  hurried  presentation  of  the  facts 
would  allow. 

Much  has  been  said  in  praise  of  the  justice  of 
miners'  courts.  They  intend  to  do  right,  but  their 
decrees  are  not  always  wise  or  just,  and  are  open 
to  many  objections,  prominent  among  which  is  that 
they  are  made  in  such  haste  as  to  prevent  a  compe- 
tent presentation  of  the  facts,  and  are  influenced 
more  by  impulse  than  by  reason  or  good  judgment. 
A  single  case  will  illustrate :  Two  gamblers  by  the 
name  of  Finigan  and  Dorsey  quarreled  one  day  in 
a  saloon  at  Elk  City.  They  were  both  desperate 
men,  and  standing  a  few  feet  apart,  fired  three  shots 
apiece.  Dorsey  missed,  but  Finigan  put  his  shots 
well  in,  and  at  the  third  fire  his  man  was  floored, 
with  three  dangerous  wounds  in  his  body,  and  was 
carried  away  vowing  to  kill  his  adversary  should 
he  ever  again  stand  on  his  feet.  His  wounds  were 
dressed  and  he  was  placed  in  bed  in  the  upper  story 
of  the  saloon  building.  About  9  o'clock  that  night 
the  doctor  came  into  the  saloon  and  said  his  patient 
was  in  a  sound  sleep  and  he  had  hopes  of  his  re- 
covery. A  few  moments  later,  Finigan  borrowed  a 
candle  from  the  barkeeper,  went  to  the  wounded 
man's  room  and  cut  his  throat  at  a  single  blow  with 
a  large  knife  which  he  always  carried,  leaving  it 
there  to  tell  the  story  of  his  terrible  guilt.  Half 


.84  STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

an  hour  later  he  came  into  the  saloon  with  blood  on 
his  clothes,  and  invited  all  hands  up  to  drink.  He 
was  arrested  and  tried  at  a  miners'  court,  and  found 
guilty  of  murder  in  the  first  degree.  He  confessed 
his  crime  and  was  sentenced  to  be  hung.  Twelve 
men  were  appointed  to  execute  the  sentence. 
Elaborate  preparations  were  made  for  him;  his 
grave  was  dug  and  the  scaffold  erected;  and  at 
the  appointed  time  he  stood  with  the  rope  around 
his  neck,  ready  to  be  launched  into  eternity.  He 
was  allowed  to  speak  to  the  crowd  gathered  around 
at  the  foot  of  the  gallows.  Young,  handsome,  intel- 
ligent, he  brought  tears  to  our  eyes  as  he  told  how, 
step  by  step,  strong  drink  had  brought  him  down 
from  a  respected  member  of  society  and  the  high 
estate  of  manhood,  until  his  life  was  justly  forfeited 
to  the  laws  of  his  country.  He  thanked  his  judges 
for  a  just  verdict,  gave  a  letter  for  his  mother  to  a 
friend,  and  without  a  tremor  in  his  voice,  bade  us 
all  good-by,  and  giving  a  signal,  in  an  instant  was 
hanging  at  the  end  of  the  rope. 

His  neck  was  not  broken  by  the  fall,  and  the 
hangman's  knot,  being  imperfectly  tied,  slowly  un- 
wound and  let  him  fall  to  the  ground.  He  called  for 
a  drink  of  water  and  begged  for  his  life.  In  an  in- 
stant men  were  shouting,  "Let  him  live!  Let  him 
live!"  Some  jumped  upon  stumps  and  made 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE   MINES  85 

speeches  in  his  defense,  while  many  drew  their  pis- 
tols and  declared  he  had  been  hung  enough,  and  they 
would  shoot  the  first  man  who  proposed  to  hang 
him  again.  A  new  vote  was  taken  and  he  was 
unanimously  cleared. 

A  collection  taken  up  by  an  old  miner  with  tears 
streaming  down  his  cheeks,  furnished  a  horse  and 
saddle,  and  Finigan  rode  away  with  hat  in  hand, 
turning  in  his  saddle  to  bow  gracefully  to  an  admir- 
ing and  happy  crowd.  Ten  minutes  later  some  dis- 
cordant wretch  said  the  hangsman  had  intended  to 
defeat  the  ends  of  justice  by  tying  a  bogus  knot. 
Instantly  a  clamor  arose,  demanding  that  the  hang- 
man stand  on  Finigan's  scaffold  and  try  a  drop  with 
a  securer  knot  than  he  had  tied.  After  a  great  many 
speeches  were  made  and  he  was  nearly  scared  to 
death,  he  was  allowed  to  sneak  away,  his  friends 
forming  a  line  to  cover  his  retreat  and  prevent  the 
crowd  from  shooting  him  down  as  he  went. 

When  I  took  the  first  gold  from  my  claim  I  was 
$2,000  in  debt.  How  I  became  so  involved  has  al- 
ways been  a  mystery  to  me ;  but  it  so  happened  that 
I  had  the  best  claim  on  the  river ;  it  paid  regularly, 
and  never  less  than  $25  per  day.  Running  four 
strings  of  sluices,  with  sixteen  men,  every  day's 
work  put  into  my  purse  $400  worth  of  dust,  and 


86  STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

again  I  felt  sure  of  a  fortune.  But  weeks  passed, 
and  after  paying  my  debts  and  keeping  up  expenses 
I  had  saved  but  little  money. 


Adventures  in  the  Mines. 


IV. 


One  day  about  the  1st  of  October,  two  men  came 
into  town,  purchased  a  supply  of  provisions,  and 
told  a  friend  under  solemn  promise  of  secrecy,  that 
they  had  discovered  a  very  rich  placer  on  the  waters 
of  Salmon  river.  That  friend  had  another  friend; 
he  had  another,  and  in  less  than  an  hour  we  had 
all  heard  the  exciting  news,  and  hundreds  were 
rushing  around,  getting  ready  to  follow  the  two 
men,  who  had  started  on  their  way  back. 

Ah,  then  and  there  was  hurrying  to  and  fro, 
And  there  was  mounting  in  hot  haste. 

And  300  men  rode  over  the  big  mountain,  eight 
miles,  to  Red  river,  and  there  came  upon  the  two 
miners  who  had  told  just  one  friend.  Their  looks 
of  surprise  and  indignation  were  amusing,  but  we 
coolly  unpacked  our  horses  and  camped  so  as  to 
completely  encircle  them,  determined  if  they  went 
to  the  diggings,  we  would  go  too.  Red  River  val- 


88  STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

ley  is  one  mile  broad  and  eight  long,  and  so  beauti- 
ful in  appearance  that  I  will  not  attempt  to  de- 
scribe it. 

At  8  o'clock  next  morning  we  observed  signs  in 
the  camp  of  the  two  men  which  indicated  they  were 
about  to  start.  Hurriedly  packing,  we  kept  the  line 
of  march  unbroken,  and  followed  their  crooks,  turn- 
ings, and  doublings,  in  a  manner  highly  satisfactory 
to  us,  but  very  annoying  to  them.  We  soon  saw 
that  they  were  determined  to  leave  us,  and  all  at- 
tempts at  compromise  with  them  failing,  we  placed 
a  guard  over  them  at  night,  and  industriously  fol- 
lowed them  through  the  day.  After  leaving  the 
valley,  we  had  no  trail.  The  mountains  full  of 
brush,  logs,  rocks,  and  canyons,  were  difficult  to 
travel  in,  and  the  men  we  were  following,  being  ex- 
perts in  mountain  travel,  led  us  a  lively  race. 

I  have  always  thought  our  chase  after  those  men, 
through  the  mountains,  the  most  ludicrous  affair  I 
ever  saw.  Sometimes  they  would  ascend  a  high 
peak  for  the  sole  purpose  of  fatiguing  their  retinue. 
Then,  while  we  were  panting  on  the  mountain  top, 
they  would  circle  around  and  retrace  their  steps  to 
the  bottom.  This  state  of  affairs  continued  about 
ten  days,  greatly  fatiguing  both  horses  and  men, 
and  bringing  us  no  nearer  the  mines. 

Various  plans  were  discussed  for  bringing  our 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  MINES  89 

tormentors  to  terms.  Some  suggested  a  bribe,  while 
others  were  in  favor  of  hanging  a  rope  with  a  noose 
in  it,  near  their  camp,  as  an  intimation  of  what 
they  might  expect  should  they  persist  in  trying  to 
leave  us. 

Human  endurance  has  its  limit,  and  one  day,  after 
traveling  from  daylight  until  dark,  back  and  forth, 
over  mountains  so  rough  that  many  horses  gave 
out  and  were  left  behind,  we  went  over  to  the  camp 
of  Shorty  and  Red  Shirt,  as  we  called  them,  and  told 
them  we  were  determined  to  have  no  more  foolish- 
ness ;  that  they  must  promise  to  lead  us  direct  to  the 
mines,  or  their  lives  should  pay  the  forfeit.  Seeing 
we  were  in  earnest,  they  gave  the  promise,  and  we 
had  a  general  handshaking  all  around. 

Good  feeling  being  restored,  it  was  wonderful  how 
Shorty  and  Red  Shirt  grew  in  favor  and  popularity. 
Their  camp  was  invaded  by  our  whole  force,  and  we 
smilingly  listened  to  every  word  which  fell  from 
their  lips,  for  they  were  golden  words,  and  told  of 
Nature's  treasures  hidden  a  few  miles  further  on, 
and  just  beneath  the  pine  trees  and  fallen  leaves. 
That  evening  we  camped  by  a  mountain  lake.  Dense 
spruce  timber  surrounded  it,  and  opened  only  to 
make  room  for  this  mountain  gem  and  its  grassy 
border.  The  lake  and  opening  in  the  timber  were 
perfect  ovals.  The  trees,  as  though  afraid  to  come 


90  STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

too  near,  stood  back,  while  the  grass  and  mountain 
flowers  went  down  from  their  feet  to  be  kissed  by 
the  pure  and  silent  waves.  Someone  said  it  was 
the  bath  pool  of  the  gods. 

For  a  time  we  forgot  to  talk  of  trials  past,  or 
even  gold,  and  strolled  along  the  shores  in  deep 
and  silent  admiration,  and  when  the  stars  shone 
out  and  were  reflected  from  that  mirror  in  the 
mountain's  lap,  I  felt  as  though  there  must  be  some- 
thing better  in  this  life  and  in  the  next  than  gold, 
and  went  to  my  camp  filled  with  thoughts  in  which 
the  thirst  for  wealth  had  little  part. 

Two  days  more,  and  we  descended  from  the  high 
peaks  to  a  basin  about  ten  miles  in  diameter,  and 
covered  with  young  spruce  pine.  About  4  o'clock, 
while  jogging  along,  the  foremost  men  raised  a 
shout  which  announced  that  we  had  at  last  reached 
the  Salmon  river  mines.  Twelve  men  were  in  the 
camp,  and  as  we  came  to  the  first  one,  who  was  wash- 
ing a  pan  of  dirt,  we  realized  "the  half  had  not  been 
told,"  and  letting  our  horses  take  care  of  themselves, 
commenced  running  up  and  down  the  creek  and 
marking  out  our  claims.  Each  claimed  300  feet, 
and  put  a  hurriedly  written  notice  on  tree  or  stake, 
at  each  end  of  the  claim.  They  read: 

"I  claim  300  feet  up  (or  down,  as  the  case  may 
be)  this  creek  for  mining  purposes." 

One  fellow  posted  his  notice  on  a  tree,  and  did 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE   MINES  91 

not  observe  until  next  day  that  he  claimed  300  feet 
up  the  tree,  instead  of  the  creek.  Of  course,  we 
didn't  stop  at  one  claim.  I  think  our  party  put  no- 
tices on  at  least  10,000,  in  less  than  three  days.  We 
had  no  time  to  prospect,  but  laid  claim  to  the  sur- 
rounding country  indiscriminately. 

In  the  evening  we  gathered  around  the  men  who 
were  mining,  and  saw  them  wash  out  $100  from  a 
pan  of  dirt.  We  all  went  wild  with  jealousy,  joy, 
or  despair,  as  we  found  a  good  prospect,  a  poor  one, 
or  saw  our  enemy  with  a  pan  half  full  of  gold. 

We  organized  a  miners'  camp  and  called  it  Flor- 
ence, elected  officers,  and  were  proceeding  to  build 
cabins,  when  we  were  awakened  to  a  knowledge  of 
our  situation  by  a  heavy  fall  of  snow.  We  had  ex- 
hausted our  provisions,  and  man  and  horse  must 
leave  or  starve.  We  found  we  had  something  be- 
sides gold  to  care  for,  and  concluded  to  let  the  yel- 
low dust  rest,  while  we  took  care  of  our  stomachs. 

We  had  in  our  crowd  two  Nez  Perce  Indians,  who 
said  they  could  guide  us  to  Camas  Prairie ;  and  pack- 
ing up  on  the  sixth  day  after  our  arrival,  we  started 
for  Lewiston.  Many  horses  were  now  worn  to  skin 
and  bones,  and  as  we  had  to  chop  our  way  through 
fallen  groves  of  young  timber,  we  moved  very 
slowly.  We  were  three  days  making  fifteen  miles, 
and  when  we  reached  Salmon  river  and  found  a 


92  STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

good  trail  leading  to  Lewiston,  we  were  happy,  and 
traveled  along,  as  merry  a  throng  as  ever  bore  such 
hardships  as  we  endured,  and  lived  to  come  safe 
home.  We  were  all  to  return  to  our  claims  next 
spring,  and  not  a  man  but  thought  he  had  a  fortune 
in  his  reach,  when  Nature  should  unclasp  her  icy 
bands  which  barred  him  out  and  kept  his  treasure  in. 

At  White  Bird  creek,  near  the  southeastern  corner 
of  Camas  Prairie,  I  left  the  Lewiston  trail  and  parted 
with  my  companions,  determined  to  make  my  way 
back  to  my  claim  and  partners  at  Elk  City. 

This  was  no  easy  task,  as  winter  seemed  to  have 
set  in,  and  snow  lay  several  feet  deep  on  the  moun- 
tains. My  horse  could  go  no  further,  and  leaving 
him  regretfully  to  the  mercy  of  an  Idaho  winter, 
I  followed  an  Indian  trail  along  the  western  edge 
of  Camas  Prairie,  to  what  was  called  Silverman's 
Crossing  of  Clearwater.  Here  I  found  a  camp  of 
the  Nez  Perces,  and  in  exchange  for  dust,  secured 
flour,  coffee  and  venison. 

After  a  fatiguing  journey  of  fifty  miles,  I  reached 
our  old  camp  and  found  my  partners  anxiously 
awaiting  news  from  Florence.  A  few  days  later  1 
learned  that  great  numbers  of  men  from  Lewiston 
were  going  to  the  new  mines,  regardless  of  snow, 
and  concluded  to  go  back  myself,  as  I  feared  our 
claims  would  not  be  respected  by  the  new  crowd  go- 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE   MINES  93 

ing  in.  After  two  days'  preparation  I  again  set  out, 
this  time  well  supplied  with  everything  necessary 
for  the  trip,  and  acting  as  guide  to  sixty  new  recruits 
who  were  anxious  to  try  the  cold  weather  and  deep 
snows  of  Florence  basin. 

Among  this  crowd  I  found  myself  quite  a  hero. 
They  loved  me,  not  "for  the  dangers  I  had  passed," 
but  for  the  good  news  I  brought,  and  listened  eagerly 
to  the  oft-told  tale  of  $100  to  the  pan.  My  company 
was  never  so  much  in  demand  before,  nor  has  it 
been  since,  and  I  could  have  been  elected  to  any 
office  in  their  gift,  by  unanimous  vote.  A  month 
later,  when  we  returned  with  empty  pockets,  gnaw- 
ing stomachs,  and  frozen  toes,  I  might  have  been 
hanged  by  these  same  men,  had  anyone  possessed 
energy  enough  to  insist  on  the  execution  of  their 
ideas  of  justice.  I  let  their  sour  looks  pass,  but 
placed  the  memory  of  them  in  the  collection  I  was 
making,  from  which  I  afterwards  formed  my  esti- 
mate of  miners'  justice. 

We  followed  the  route  on  which  I  had  returned, 
and  on  the  fifth  day  came  to  the  crossing  of  the 
White  Bird,  where  we  intercepted  the  line  of  travel 
from  Lewiston.  Here  we  found  many  campers,  and 
learned  to  a  certainty  that  our  formal  closing  of 
the  diggings  until  spring  was  unheeded,  and  that 
several  thousand  men  were  now  making  their  way 


94  STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

over  the  deep  snows,  and  were  jumping  our  claims 
as  fast  as  they  came  to  them. 

It  was  wonderful  what  a  rush  was  being  made 
for  that  frozen  camp.  Men  were  coming  from  all 
quarters,  and  paid  no  attention  to  winter  and  its 
unpleasant  accompaniments.  In  places  where  the 
snow  was  very  deep  it  was  shoveled  away,  tramped 
hard  by  men,  or  bridged  with  spruce  brush;  and 
pack  mules,  loaded  with  300  pounds  apiece,  passed 
safely  along,  landing  the  necessaries  of  life  on 
Summit  Flat  in  the  midst  of  the  now  famous  Flor- 
ence diggings.  Slate  Creek  hill,  fifteen  miles  from 
the  mines,  is  the  longest,  highest,  and  hardest  hill 
to  climb  I  ever  saw.  From  bottom  to  top  it  was 
festooned  with  men,  mules,  spotted  cayuses,  and 
jackasses.  Men  puffed  and  blew  as  they  had  never 
done  before,  and  horses,  mules,  and  cayuses,  and 
other  things,  climbed,  fell,  rolled,  tumbled,  slid, 
kicked,  squealed,  snorted,  brayed  and  bit,  in  a  man- 
ner indescribable,  and  which  would  have  been 
very  amusing  to  anyone  not  engaged  in  the  struggle. 
The  fearful  oaths  that  vollied  out  from  that  moun- 
tain side,  if  treasured  up,  would  have  sunk  the  uni- 
verse. 

They  went  out  into  the  air  and  were  telephoned 
on  the  morning  breeze  across  Salmon  river,  echoing 
along  its  canyons  from  cliff  to  cliff,  and  dying  away 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  MINES  95 

in  a  wrathful  growl  upon  the  rippling  stream.  Let 
us  hope  they  ended  there;  that  as  the  rocky  hills 
treasured  not  up  the  wrong  when  their  sides  no 
longer  vibrated  with  discordant  notes,  and  the  rush- 
ing water  laughingly  hushed  them  with  its  own 
sweet  silvery  music.  Heaven  will  not  be  defaced  by 
everlasting  impressions  of  them,  or  less  mercy  found 
than  shown  by  that  rock-bound  river. 

Florence  basin  was  alive  from  bottom  to  top,  and 
men  were  crawling  over  the  brim  on  three  sides. 
Florence  City  was  started;  new  discoveries  were 
made;  men  were  shot  while  wrangling  over  claims, 
cards,  or  whisky;  women  rode  in  on  mules. 

And  all  went  merry  as  a  marriage  bell. 

But  hark!    A  deep  sound  breaks  in  once  more. 

A  storm  came  on,  and  as  the  snow  came  down 
and  the  wind  mourned  through  the  deadened  trees, 
we  realized  that  all  who  were  not  prepared  for  a 
winter  in  a  high  northern  latitude,  had  better  re- 
trace their  steps  before  the  snow  should  entirely 
shut  them  in. 

Provisions  on  hand  were  entirely  insufficient  for 
the  men  in  camp.  Already  flour  was  sold  at  $1.50 
per  pound,  and  many  had  neither  money  nor  pro- 
visions. What  prospecting  was  done,  tended  rather 
to  show  that  the  mines  were  not  extensive;  and  of 


96  STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

the  men  there,  not  one  in  a  hundred  had  a  claim 
worth  working.  Summit  Flat,  a  mile  long,  Babboon 
gulsh,  Miller's  creek,  and  a  few  other  short  gulches 
were  very  rich,  but  outside  of  those,  nothing  good 
was  found.  Then  the  reaction  set  in,  and  the  herd 
went  back  faster  than  they  came,  over  the  same 
trail,  over  the  Slate  Creek  hill.  They  labored  less, 
but  swore  infinitely  more  than  when  they  came.  The 
toughest  ones  being  left  in  camp,  we  had  a  lively 
time.  Claims  were  jumped  right  and  left.  The 
Irish  were  in  the  majority,  and  miners'  meetings  de- 
cided not  who  was  entitled  to  possession,  but  to  what 
nationality  the  contestants  belonged.  Many  of  these 
decisions  were  contrary  to  justice  and  gave  serious 
trouble,  sometimes  resulting  in  shooting  scrapes. 

An  old  man  by  the  name  of  Lyons  was  the  first 
victim  of  this  mob.  He  had  two  partners  named 
George  and  Jim  Rodock,  brothers,  who  came 
out  with  us  the  first  time  from  Elk  City.  Lyons 
stayed  on  American  river  and  worked  their  claims 
until  they  sent  him  word  to  come  to  Florence.  Be- 
fore he  arrived  they  sold  the  claim  they  had  taken 
up  for  him,  and  told  him,  when  he  came,  that  he 
was  no  longer  their  partner,  and  must  look  out  for 
himself.  The  old  man  was  camped  with  me  and  told 
his  grievances.  I  advised  him  to  let  them  go,  and 
try  to  find  a  new  claim.  He  went  above  them  on  the 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE   MINES  97 

gulch,  and  sinking  a  hole,  discovered  a  very  rich 
claim. 

The  Rodocks,  hearing  of  his  good  fortune,  came 
and  claimed  a  share  with  him.  This  being  refused, 
they  told  him  he  should  not  work  there,  and  that  if 
he  came  back  they  would  kill  him.  He  was  de- 
termined not  to  be  driven  away,  and  went,  axe  in 
hand,  to  chop  a  log  which  lay  on  the  claim;  he  said 
he  was  afraid  to  go,  but  that  he  had  been  working 
for  eight  years  to  support  his  little  grand-daughter, 
and  he  believed  there  was  gold  enough  there  to 
support  her  the  rest  of  her  life,  and  he  would  risk 
his  life  to  get  it  for  her.  Tears  were  in  his  eyes, 
as  he  talked  of  this  child  and  showed  her  baby  let- 
ters. An  hour  after  he  went  to  work,  we  found 
him  lying  upon  his  back  in  the  snow,  with  a  bullet 
through  his  heart.  He  had  made  an  effort  at  self- 
defense,  for  his  pistol  was  half  drawn  from  its 
scabbard,  and  tightly  clutched  in  the  lifeless  fingers. 

We  carried  him  up  and  laid  him  to  rest  on  the 
hill  near  Florence,  and  then  went  to  look  after  his 
murderers;  never  doubting  they  felt  secure  and 
would  be  found  in  their  cabin.  A  friend  of  the 
murdered  man  had  seen  the  shooting,  and  had  ex- 
changed several  shots  with  the  brothers,  but  being 
some  distance  away,  both  had  missed.  We  arrived 
at  the  cabin  after  dark,  and  seeing  no  light  and 


98  STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

getting  no  answer,  beat  down  the  barred  door  with 
a  log,  and  found  they  had  gone. 

I  forgot  to  say  that  before  we  looked  them  up, 
one  of  them  had  gone  through  some  form  of  a  trial 
among  his  friends,  and  had  been  discharged,  before 
half  the  miners  knew  the  crime  had  been  committed. 

They  did  not  return,  and  their  claims,  cabin  and 
supplies  were  jumped  by  some  needy  friends;  but 
the  miners  took  possession  of  the  old  man's  claim, 
sold  it  for  $2,000  cash,  and  sent  the  whole  amount 
to  well  known  and  reliable  men  in  San  Francisco, 
whom  they  appointed  guardians,  directing  them  to 
receive  and  use  it  as  a  legacy  from  the  faithful 
old  man  to  the  child  for  whom  he  had  labored  eight 
years,  and  had  risked  and  lost  his  life. 

After  thorough  prospecting,  my  own  claim  proved 
to  be  a  poor  one,  and  I  hired  out  to  work  on  Summit 
Flat  for  $16  per  day.  The  owner  of  the  claim  and 
myself,  working  one  rocker,  took  out  about  $200  a 
day,  after  stripping  the  ground  of  four  feet  of  turf. 
The  ground  was  very  flat  and  would  not  admit  of 
working  with  sluices.  One  day  while  rocking  the 
cradle  we  witnessed  a  very  amusing  affair. 

An  old  German  had  built  a  very  small  house  on 
the  edge  of  the  flat.  It  was  neatly  built,  and  com- 
plete throughout,  except  the  door.  He  looked  it  all 
over  and  gave  the  ratifying  nod,  and  went  up  to 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE   MINES  99 

the  store  for  some  nails .  to  make  his  door  with. 
He  was  not  gone  more  than  half  an  hour,  as  he  was 
anxious  to  move  into  his  new  and  comfortable  quar- 
ters that  evening.  When  he  reached  the  door  he 
commenced  to  roar  like  a  .wounded  grizzly,  swearing 
in  Dutch,  tearing  his  hair,  and  dancing  around  in 
a  most  frantic  manner.  We  hastened  down  to  see 
what  could  be  the  matter.  We  saw  a  sight  that 
was  as  ludicrous  to  us  as  it  was  exasperating  to  the 
Dutchman.  An  old  horse  which  had  been  turned 
out  to  die,  had  been  gnawing  the  turf  upon  the  flat 
for  several  days ;  he  was  very  large  and  very  poor, 
He  went  into  the  little  house,  no  doubt  thinking  it 
was  a  stable,  and  in  trying  to  turn  around,  had  fal- 
len and  died.  The  Dutchman  jumped  upon  his  poor 
old  carcass  with  both  feet,  and  yelled  like  a  Co- 
manche,  but  he  was  stone  dead. 

His  head,  which  showed  him  to  be  of  the  finest 
American  stock,  lay  in  one  corner,  while  the  toes 
of  his  hind  feet,  stubbed  by  the  rocky  hills  he  had 
crossed,  reached  the  other.  He  had  been  a  splendid 
horse,  and  even  while  the  old  man  was  tearing 
around,  I  ceased  laughing  to  pity  his  fate  and  con- 
template his  splendid  proportions — splendid  even  in 
poverty  and  death.  The  old  man  continued  to  tear 
around  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  paying  no  atten- 
tion to  those  gathered  around,  but  cursing  the  old 


100          STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

horse  over  and  over  again,  until  he  was  almost  ex- 
hausted. Then  he  cooled  down  and  went  to  work 
with  his  butcher  knife  and  hatchet,  to  cut  up  the 
carcass.  He  would  cut  off  a  leg,  and  taking  it  upon 
his  shoulder  carry  it  away,  stooping  beneath  his  load 
and  muttering  curses  at  every  breath.  I  would  give 
$100  for  a  correct  picture  of  that  Dutchman  as  he 
carried  away  the  last  load.  It  was  that  monstrous 
head,  grasped  by  one  ear.  As  he  grinned  back  at 
the  laughing  crowd,  some  one  asked  him  why  he 
did  not  tie  a  rope  to  the  horse  and  get  his  friends 
to  help  drag  him  away.  "My  door  vas  two  feet;  tee 
hips  mit  dot  horse  vas  four  feet.  Ter  tiefel  pring 
him  to  my  house  whole,  I  must  fetch  him  away  in 
pieces.  He  vas  too  tarn  big  anyways,  I  make  some 
ponies  of  him.  Dot  last  het  on  mine  pack  was  big- 
ger tan  some  jackasses." 

About  this  time  we  had  an  Indian  scare.  Two 
prospectors  returned  and  reported  that  1,500  In- 
dians, headed  by  old  Eagle-of-the-Light,  were  about 
twelve  miles  north  of  us.  The  report  created  great 
excitement  and  seemed  not  improbable,  as  that  war- 
like chief  had  threatened  the  miners  with  destruc- 
tion should  they  persist  in  invading  his  domains. 

He  was  a  renegade  Nez  Perce,  supported  by  the 
same  band  of  Snakes  which  has  since  given  so  much 
trouble  in  Idaho  and  Washington  territories.  We 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE   MINES  101 

enrolled  two  companies  under  Jeff  Stanifer  and  Jack 
Stanfield,  and  started  out  to  meet  the  hostiles.  Great 
caution  was  necessary  to  prevent  a  surprise  in  that 
broken  country,  and  we  were  several  days  before  we 
discovered  the  cause  of  the  first  alarm.  The  whole 
thing  originated  in  a  trifling  affair.  Three  men  had 
sunk  a  prospect  hole,  and  finding  nothing,  were  mak- 
ing merry  over  their  disappointment.  One  beat  a 
tattoo  on  a  pan,  while  the  others  danced  around  and 
yelled,  imitating  the  war  dance  of  the  Sioux.  Just 
at  this  moment  the  men  who  spread  the  alarm,  hear- 
ing the  noise,  peered  over  the  hill  and  saw  the  dance. 
Two  of  the  dancers  had  on  red  shirts,  and  being 
a  mile  distant  were  mistaken  for  Indians.  The 
echoes  multiplied  the  whoops  and  warlike  notes, 
until  1,500  painted  warriors  was  the  least  estimate 
made  of  the  dancing  army.  Discouraged  at  finding 
no  one  to  shoot  at  but  one  another,  we  went  back 
to  town,  intending  to  make  a  miniature  lead  mine 
of  the  men  who  had  deceived  us,  but  they  were 
never  found,  and  are  probably  living  today  in  peace- 
ful seclusion  under  laws  which  would  have  been  no 
protection  to  them  had  they  met  the  two  armies 
which  marched  back  to  Florence  from  the  scene 
of  the  mimic  war  dance. 

All  this  time  the  weather  was  getting  colder,  the 
snow  deeper,  and  the  provisions  becoming  more  and 


102          STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

more  scarce.  Still  men  came  and  went.  Pack  ani- 
mals could  no  longer  reach  the  camp,  and  pack  trains 
of  men  brought  flour  from  Slate  creek.  Each  packer 
owned  his  own  train,  and  loaded  up  and  unloaded 
as  he  pleased.  He  could  carry  from  fifty  to  100 
pounds,  making  the  trip  in  two  days,  and  was  paid 
$1  per  pound  freight.  Some  men  established  rep- 
utations for  strength  and  endurance,  rivaling  that 
of  a  mule,  by  the  enormous  loads  they  packed,  while 
others  received  less  enviable  ones  by  taking  their 
meals  from  the  contents  of  the  sack  they  carried. 
Established  packers  had  a  reputation  to  maintain, 
and  could  not  afford  to  lose  it  for  a  few  pounds  of 
flour,  and  a  sack  that  came  on  the  shoulders  of 
Long  Jim  or  Big  Jack  was  taken  at  par,  while  those 
brought  by  men  of  less  repute  were  subject  to 
closer  scrutiny,  and  often  weighed. 

Many  of  the  miners  were  from  Oregon,  and  had 
brought  from  their  homes  sober  habits  and  quiet 
dispositions,  together  with  other  adjuncts  of  civ- 
ilized life.  Vocal  and  instrumental  music,  with 
anecdotes  and  intelligent  conversation,  whiled  away 
the  evening  hours  within  the  rugged  cabins. 

But  the  town  had  received  many  accessions  from 
Washoe  and  other  mining  camps  of  a  different  style 
of  men.  Fred  Patterson,  Billy  Mayfield,  Jakey  Will- 
iams, Cherokee  Bob,  and  a  dozen  other  desperadoes, 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  MINES  103 

were  amongst  us.  Each  could  boast  of  several  men 
who  had  lost  their  lives  while  fooling  with  them; 
and  all  were  anxious  to  add  to  their  laurels  by  se- 
curing a  few  more  victims  before  some  quicker  hand 
than  theirs  should  stop  their  fated  course.  Poor 
old  man  Lyons!  He  was  not  allowed  to  rest  alone 
on  the  claim  we  gave  him.  Hurrying  crowds 
tramped  above  his  bed;  the  hill  opened,  and  men 
with  boots  upon  their  feet,  with  bloody  hands  and 
blackened  soul  laid  them  down  to  sleep  beside 
him.  To  me,  this  seemed  a  desecration,  but  I 
hold  less  censure  now,  and  hope  the  blood  of  Christ 
nas  power  enough  to  wash  their  stains  away,  and 
purge  their  souls  so  white  that  some  time  in  eternity 
good,  old  Father  Lyons,  in  the  realms  above,  shall 
not  shudder,  but  rejoice  to  see  them  come.  Reckless 
men  held  high  carnival  in  Florence  for  a  year,  when 
those  who  survived  the  knife  and  pistol,  finding 
money  was  getting  scarce,  sought  other  scenes,  and 
Placerville,  Bannock,  Rocky  Bar,  and  Silver  City, 
trembled  at  their  deeds.  Not  one  of  those  I  have 
mentioned  is  now  alive,  and  many  of  their  class 
have  joined  them  in  their  bloody  graves.  Not  one 
has  lived  a  worthy  life,  or  died  a  noble  death.  And 
yet  they  were  not  wholly  bad.  Their  generous  im- 
pulses were  known  throughout  the  land,  and  wit- 
nessing their  noble  bearing  and  desperate  courage, 


104          STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

I  could  but  regret  that  they  had  not  been  turned  in 
youth  to  nobler  fields  of  conquest,  where  generous 
courage  could  adorn  a  well-spent  life,  and  where 
the  world  would  look  the  brighter  for  their  lives. 
I  feel  like  saying  more  about  these  men,  and  think 
some  day  I  shall;  but  youth  will  not  be  led  astray, 
nor  decent  people  shocked,  as  when  the  life  of  Jesse 
James  appeared,  for  I  shall  speak  the  truth ;  record 
the  deetfs  they  did;  point  to  their  bloody  graves, 
which  tell  the  moral  out  so  plain  that,  though  their 
deeds  were  crimes,  the  lessons  which  they  truly 
teach,  may  prove  a  blessing  now. 

As  I  have  said,the  weather  was  getting  very  cold, 
and  but  little  work  could  be  done.  A  few  men  had 
rich  claims,  but  the  majority  were  wandering  around 
with  nothing  to  do.  My  own  hopes  of  a  fortune  had 
gradually  withered,  and  I  believed,  as  afterwards 
proved  true,  that  the  rich  spots  about  Florence  were 
mostly  found.  Moreover,  I  had  promised  some  one 
to  come  back  to  the  little  school  house  by  the  bridge, 
and  for  the  second  time  I  turned  my  back  on  Flor- 
ence and  waded  through  the  snows  to  firmer  foot- 
ing. I  must  reach  Elk  City  before  going  home,  or 
else  I  should  return  poorer  than  I  came. 

Again  I  left  the  traveled  road  at  White  Bird, 
skirted  Camas  Prairie,  and  reached  the  crossing  of 
the  Clearwater.  Some  men  mining  on  the  bars  just 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE   MINES  105 

above  the  crossing  declared  that  I  could  not  wade 
the  snow  across  the  mountain.  I  made  a  pair  of 
snow  shoes  and  started  up  the  steep  incline.  At  first 
the  snow  was  light,  but  steadily  increased  in  depth 
until  I  could  make  but  little  headway.  My  snow 
shoes  did  not  work  well,  and  sometimes  where 
drifts  of  light  snow  lay,  I  was  forced  to  lie  full  length 
and  crawl  across  them.  I  was  five  days  going  fifty 
miles,  and  endured  fatigue  and  exposure  enough  to 
kill  anything  but  a  mule  or  a  young  Webfoot.  Elk 
City  looked  like  a  camp  meeting  the  day  after  ad- 
journment; not  one  house  in  ten  was  occupied.  My 
partners  were  not  expecting  me,  but  welcomed  me 
back,  and  we  all  concluded  to  leave  our  claims  until 
spring  and  go  to  Walla  Walla  to  winter.  I  did  not 
say  to  them  I  was  going  home,  for  fear  they  would 
all  want  to  go,  and  we  did  not  have  enough  money 
to  send  more  than  one  off  in  good  style.  Webfoot 
boys  become  homesick  very  easily,  and  once  taken, 
they  are  like  the  Swiss  people  when  away  from 
home,  genuinely  sick. 


Adventures  in  the  Mines. 


v. 


Carrying  our  blankets  and  camping  out  at  night, 
we  made  our  way  across  the  mountains,  and  ai'ler 
a  weary  tramp  arrived  at  Lewiston,  the  canvas 
town.  It  was  quite  a  city  now ;  the  white  tents  stand- 
ing on  the  plain  looked  like  the  bivouac  of  an  army, 
and  contrasted  strangely  with  the  other  towns.  The 
tents  were  in  the  form  of  one-story  houses,  standing 
in  the  regular  order  and  supported  with  a  light 
framework  of  wood.  Some  of  them  contained  large 
stocks  of  goods,  while  others  were  saloons,  hotels, 
etc. 

We  stopped  at  the  Oro  Fino  house,  and  while  at 
supper,  noticed  some  bullet  holes  in  the  canvas  near 
where  we  sat.  I  remarked  to  the  proprietor  that  he 
had  difficulty  with  his  waiters. 

"No,"  said  he,  "those  shots  were  fired  at  the 
French  restaurant  man  at  the  other  end  of  the 
block  by  his  cook.  They  passed  through  the  entire 
block,  encountering  nothing  but  canvas,  but  one  of 


108          STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

them  killed  a  mule  in  the  next  street.  There  are 
some  more  in  the  back  of  the  tent.  They  were  fired 
from  across  the  river  by  some  one  who  was  trying 
the  range  of  a  Sharp's  rifle.  I  would  like  to  put  up 
some  boards  to  protect  my  patrons  while  at  their 
meals,  but  the  government  officers  stationed  at  Lap- 
wai  will  not  allow  it,  and  I  must  do  the  best  I  can 
until  a  treaty  can  be  made  with  the  Indians.  I  al- 
ways seat  gentlemen  on  this  side  of  the  table,  so 
that  if  hit  by  a  bullet  from  the  big  saloon  it  will 
not  be  in  the  back.  But  with  government  officers, 
lawyers,  doctors,  and  Indian  agents,  it  don't  mat- 
ter, and  those  reserved  seats  are  for  them." 

Sincerely  appreciating  the  courtesy  of  this  man, 
we  made  a  hearty  meal,  and  soon  after  went  to  rest, 
hoping  our  bodies  would  not  be  perforated  during 
the  night  by  shots  from  the  big  saloon.  Three  days' 
travel  brought  us  to  Walla  Walla.  Here  I  met  the 
long  lost  Thomas,  and  we  agreed  to  return  home  to- 
gether. The  town  was  wonderfully  improved,  and 
business  activity  manifest  on  every  side.  The  news 
from  Florence  had  converted  it  into  a  mining  camp 
although  200  miles  from  where  the  gold  was  found. 
The  same  wild  excitement  which  I  had  witnessed 
at  Oro  Fino,  Elk  City  and  Florence,  was  here. 
Everything  was  worth  more  money  than  it  had  ever 
been  before.  The  most  indolent  men  held  up  their 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE   MINES  109 

heads,  quickened  their  pace,  and  boldly  went  into 
speculation,  buying  whatever  was  offered,  and  pay- 
ing but  little  attention  to  price.  The  mania  for 
speculation  was  universal.  The  lazy  Indian  brought 
his  ponies  to  market,  and  even  the  pony  himself 
seemed  to  look  proud  when  a  white  man  thought  him 
worth  $100.  I  felt  as  much  excited  as  the  rest,  but 
"remembering  things  that  were,"  I  turned  my 
back  on  all  this,  purchased  a  horse,  and  started 
home.  I  had  ridden  about  half  way  through  the 
town  when  I  met  the  Devil,  in  the  form  of  an  old 
friend,  who  said: 

"George,  you  are  going  back  to  poverty  and  ob- 
scurity. You  are  young,  and  you  should  try  to  get 
a  fortune.  If  you  will  stay  two  years  in  this  coun- 
try you  can  make  money  enough  to  astonish  the 
whole  Webfoot  nation." 

Some  way  this  speech  stuck  to  my  ear.  I  al- 
ways thought  I  should  like  to  astonish  the  Webfeet, 
especially  the  girls.  I  said: 

"If  I  should  stay,  what  can  I  do  with  my  dust?" 

He  cast  his  eye  up  the  street  for  an  investment; 
glanced  at  a  hotel,  a  saloon,  a  blacksmith  shop,  and 
finally  settled  his  hellish  gaze  upon  an  ox  team. 

"Buy  that  team,"  he  said,  "and  go  with  my  train 
to  Lewiston.  You  can  make  a  thousand  dollars  in 
thirty  days." 

I   consented,   purchased    the    team,   and    thirty 


110          STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

minutes  later  was  on  the  road  to  Lewiston,  loaded 
with  flour  and  bacon.  I  had  abandoned  cherished 
plans,  and  embarked  on  a  new  enterprise.  My  emo- 
tions were  high  and  conflicting,  and  as  I  walked 
along  beside  the  oxen,  I  tried  to  compose  a  few  lines 
of  poetry  to  be  sent  below  as  an  apology  for  not  re- 
turning : 

"O  do  not  think  that  I  am  false, 

That  Florence  snows  have  quenched  my  flame. 
Men  have  been  true  a  hundred  years, 

But  I'll  be ." 

I  never  could  finish  that  verse.  The  poet's  muse 
has  not  been  aristocratic;  it  has  cheered  the  lower 
walks  of  life ;  has  sat  by  the  sailor's  cot,  and  lingered 
about  the  hut  of  the  shepherd ;  has  visited  the  blind 
and  deaf,  and  even  gilded  the  captive's  cell.  But 
there  is  one  thing  it  never  did  do — it  never  fooled 
away  any  time  with  a  man  who  was  driving  an  ox 
team. 

This  I  partly  realized  as  I  tried  in  vain  to  finish 
my  verse,  and  cracked  my  whip  upon  the  fagging 
team.  It  seemed  that  the  oxen  were  moving  slower 
at  every  step,  and  seemed  to  be  pulling  harder  and 
harder.  At  last  they  stalled  on  a  little  hill,  and  I 
could  not  make  them  move.  After  much  yelling 
and  whipping,  I  looked  back  at  the  two  wagons  I 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE   MINES  111 

was  trying  to  start.  To  the  hindmost  one  my  horse 
was  tied  with  a  stout  rope ;  he  was  down  on  his  side, 
and  it  was  he  who  had  caused  the  heavy  pulling  and 
finally  stopped  the  team.  He  was  choked  to  death, 
and  had  been  dead  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  A  man 
who  overtook  me  said  he  saw  him  down  when  I 
came  over  the  last  hill,  and  he  had  been  hallooing  to 
me  ever  since,  but  as  the  wind  was  blowing  I  did 
not  hear.  My  three  lines  of  verse  had  cost  me  $100. 
My  cattle,  which  cost  me  ten  times  that  amount, 
proved  of  as  little  value  as  they,  for  the  hard  win- 
ter which  was  ushered  in  by  the  next  day's  storm, 
froze  them  all  to  death,  and  I  was  left  with  my 
bitter  experience,  my  three  lines  of  verse,  and  my 
future  expectations.  During  the  whole  of  that  win- 
ter, which  was  the  hardest  ever  known  in  that  coun- 
try, Walla  Walla  was  gathering  from  the  miners 
a  rich  harvest  of  gold.  While  the  snows  were  wh't- 
ening  upon  the  plain,  and  cattle  were  starving  upon 
a  thousand  hills,  the  townspeople  were  gaining  in 
wealth  as  never  before.  All  kinds  of  trade  was 
good,  but  gambling  seemed  to  be  in  the  summit  of 
its  glory.  Ten  thousand  dollars  were  frequently  bet 
on  the  turn  of  a  single  card,  and  the  whole  town  wa? 
in  a  wild  mad  state  of  uproarous  hilarity.  So"ie 
readers  will  remember  the  desperado,  Tom  Gafner. 


112          STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

He  went  to  Walla  Walla,  and  soon    distinguished 
himself  as  a  quarrelsome  and  desperate  man. 

While  passing  along  the  street  one  day,  he  saw 
a  Jew  sitting  inside  the  window  of  his  store,  and 
taking  a  box  which  had  been  filled  with  clay  pipes 
and  had  been  placed  outside  for  a  tobacco  sign, 
threw  it  through  the  window  upon  the  unoffending 
Jew.  These  people  are  generally  peaceable  and  slow 
to  wrath,  but  if  there  is  anything  that  will  over- 
come their  natural  reluctance  to  fight,  it  is  to  see 
their  property  destroyed,  and  especially  in  such  a 
wanton  manner  as  this.  The  clay  pipes  had  not 
ceased  rattling  on  the  floor,  before  the  Jew,  armed 
with  a  stout  sword,  sprang  through  the  door  and 
aimed  a  blow  at  the  head  of  his  assailant.  Gafner 
skillfully  parried  it  with  a  light  thorn  stick  which 
he  carried,  and  dealt  a  blow  in  return  which  brought 
the  swordsman  to  his  knees.  The  Jew  fought  with 
the  wild  rage  of  a  maddened  beast,  or  the  desperate 
courage  of  Roderick  Dhu  whilst  his  antagonist 
laughed  in  his  face  and  foiled  his  blows  with  the  cool 
courage  of  Fitz  James.  Gafner  was  an  expert 
swordsman,  and  upon  that  slender  cane  received  a 
dozen  blows,  and  with  it  gave  as  many  in  return,  un- 
til a  down  cut  reached  his  right  hand  and  left  it  use- 
less. The  cane  fell,  and  as  he  stooped  to  pick  it  up, 
the  sword  was  buried  in  his  head.  He  died  the  next 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  MINES  113 

day,  and  all  agreed  that  he  had  received  his  just  re- 
ward. Yet  somewhere,  hearts  were  anguished  by 
his  fall.  Some  one  loved  him  when  a  laughing  baby. 
Some  one  waited  for  his  coming.  Somewhere  tears 
were  shed  for  him. 

By  the  middle  of  January,  snow  had  fallen  to 
a  depth  of  two  and  a  half  feet,  and  a  very  heavy 
sleet  had  formed  on  top,  rendering  it  impossible  for 
stock  to  get  anything  to  eat  on  the  ranges.  Cattle 
died  by  thousands,  and  not  more  than  1  per  cent  of 
the  vast  herds  north  of  The  Dalles  were  alive  when 
spring  came.  The  thermometer  went  down  until 
the  mercury  congealed,  and  many  persons  were 
frozen  to  death. 

As  but  little  has  been  said  in  these  sketches  about 
the  ladies,  I  may  mention  a  young  actress  about 
whom  the  boys  raved  that  cold  winter.  Susie  Rob- 
inson, the  star  of  the  Robinson  troupe,  which  played 
in  Corvallis  during  the  winter  of  1860,  was  a  beau- 
tiful girl,  who  sang  divinely,  and  set  the  masculine 
hearts  palpitating  wherever  she  went.  She  was  at 
the  height  of  her  fame,  and  in  all  her  glory  at  Walla 
Walla,  and  more  admired  and  petted  than  any 
queen.  Her  form  and  voice  were  praised  by  all,  and 
her  virtue  extolled,  while  her  father  gathered  at 
the  door  of  his  theater  willing  tributes  enough,  each 
day,  to  have  made  her  a  golden  crown.  Was  ever 


114          STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

a  queen  so  fortunately  situated?  We  know  now 
that  she  was  not  a  great  actress  or  singer,  and  my 
roving  eyes  have  since  discovered  that  she  was  not 
a  remarkable  beauty,  but  at  that  time  many  Oregon 
boys  had  never  seen  the  gay  tinsels  of  a  stage  cos- 
tume ;  never  been  thrilled  by  the  rich  tones  of  a  cul- 
tivated voice,  or  seen  a  beautiful  woman  poised  on 
one  toe,  and  she  took  the  frontier  heart  by  storm. 
Nor  were  the  Oregon  boys  her  only  admirers.  Men 
of  mature  years  left  their  families  at  home,  and 
came  to  see  what  the  boys  were  all  talking  about. 
A  German  surgeon  of  high  repute  lost  his  reason 
entirely  while  contemplating  her  glories. 

Two  companies  of  troops  were  stationed  at  the 
fort,  and  the  soldiers  were  as  much  infatuated  with 
Susie  as  were  the  citizens.  They  came  to  the 
theater  by  companies,  and  seated  themselves  in 
platoons  before  the  stage.  Then  came  trouble.  The 
citizens  would  not  allow  the  favorite  to  be  monopo- 
lized by  soldiers,  and  after  several  slight  encounters 
drove  them  from  the  theater,  telling  them  not  to 
come  again  or  civil  war  would  certainly  follow. 
They  had  enlisted  for  three  years  or  the  war.  The 
stirring  news  from  the  Southern  states  was  over- 
coming the  influences  of  the  fort,  and  they  felt 
combative.  Moreover,  they  wanted  to  see  Susie, 
and  probably  thought  if  Uncle  Abe  was  going  to 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE   MINES  115 

march  their  brethren  down  to  take  Richmond,  they 
ought  to  be  able  to  take  Robinson's  theater.  They 
came  fully  armed,  and  determined  to  insist  upon 
their  rights.  We  all  knew  a  fight  was  coming,  and 
divided  our  sympathies  according  to  our  political 
opinions.  Susie  came  upon  the  stage,  and  the  sight 
of  her  for  a  time  quelled  even  the  turbulent  feel- 
ings of  the  two  contending  factions.  A  hearty  round 
of  applause  greeted  her,  and  she  acknowledged  it  as 
only  a  favorite  can,  and  commenced  to  sing.  One 
of  the  soldiers,  who  had  been  drinking,  continued 
to  cheer,  and  the  marshal  attempted  to  take  him 
from  the  room,  but  he  resisted  and  felled  the  offi- 
cer with  a  blow  of  a  dragoon  pistol.  Instantly  the 
house  was  in  an  uproar.  Susie  screamed  and  ran 
from  the  stage.  Navy  Colt's  pistols  leaped  from 
their  scabbards  and  bellowed  like  the  roar  of  artil- 
lery. Cherokee  Bob  sprang  upon  his  seat  and  fired 
straight  and  fast,  dropping  a  soldier  at  every  shot. 
He  stood  above  most  of  the  crowd,  and  was  a  fair 
mark  for  all  who  wanted  a  shot  at  a  desperado  and 
murderer.  The  soldiers  were  intoxicated  and  missed 
their  mark,  but  Bob  received  several  shots  from  one 
who  did  not  often  miss,  the  last  one  knocking  him 
from  the  seat  where  he  stood,  and  yet  he  was  un- 
hurt. It  was  known  afterward  that  he  wore  mail 
beneath  his  clothing,  and  this  had  saved  his  worth- 


116          STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

less  life.  The  firing  continued  from  all  parts  of 
the  room,  and  a  terrible  stampede  ensued,  every  one 
but  those  engaged  trying  to  get  out  of  the  house. 
More  than  fifty  shots  were  fired,  and  the  room  was 
filled  with  smoke,  out  of  which  pistols  blazed,  fired 
at  supposed  enemies,  though  several  times  friends 
fired  upon  each  other.  Three  men  were  killed 
and  many  wounded,  besides  a  great  many  were 
nearly  scared  to  death.  I  helped  to  carry  a  man 
to  the  surgeon,  who  said  he  had  a  death  shot,  and 
was  really  falling  when  we  caught  him.  He  had  the 
slightest  flesh  wound,  though  the  ball  had  struck 
a  purse  of  coin  in  his  pocket,  which  turned  its 
course  and  probably  saved  his  life. 

No  one  was  arrested,  and  the  theater  went  on 
as  usual,  but  Susie  never  seemed  quite  the  same 
afterward.  A  slight  commotion  in  the  audience 
would  attract  her  attention  in  the  midst  of  her  best 
song,  and  in  her  best  play  she  always  looked  as 
though  she  was  just  a  little  afraid  some  one  was 
going  to  shoot.  Many  years  have  passed,  and  Susie, 
if  among  the  living,  must  show  the  hand  of  time. 

"The  maid  on  whose  cheek,  on  whose  brow,  in  whose 

eye, 
Shone  beauty  and  pleasure — her  triumphs  are  by." 

Yet  she  no  doubt  remembers  and  tells  her  children, 
if  she  has  been  so  blessed  as  to  be  a  mother,  that 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE   MINES  117 

she  once  held  sway  over  a  country  large  enough  for 
an  empire,  and  ruled  her  subjects  with  a  royal  will. 
But  sometimes  thoughts  of  sadness  will  steal  upon 
her  as  she  remembers  that  in  trying  to  please,  she 
once  raised  a  storm  she  could  not  quell,  and  that 
men  have  fought  and  died  contending  for  the  right 
to  hear  her  sing. 

I  spent  the  latter  part  of  the  winter  with  Thomas 
on  the  Touchet,  about  twenty  miles  from  town.  He 
felt  as  much  distressed  at  the  loss  of  my  oxen  as  I 
did  myself,  and  together  we  discussed  future  opera- 
tions, and  laid  plans  for  the  next  summer's  cam- 
paign. Thomas  was  in  favor  of  buying  another 
team,  which  he  would  drive,  but  I  declared  I  would 
never  invest  in  anything,  so  slow  as  an  ox  again. 
This  was  a  splendid  resolution,  and  had  I  but  ad- 
hered to  it  I  would  have  been  spared  much  vexation 
of  spirit,  and  have  avoided  the  loss  of  several  thou- 
sand dollars.  But  we  do  not  like  to  be  beaten,  even 
by  Providence,  and  I  chafed  sorely  over  that  win- 
ter's defeat.  Several  years  later  I  purchased  an- 
other team  of  oxen,  and  the  Indians  shot  them  full 
of  arrows  on  the  Malheur  river.  Then  I  bought 
another,  and  remembering  my  past  experience,  sold 
it  at  a  profit,  and  took  a  note  for  $1,000  in  payment. 
The  man  ran  away  and  never  paid  me  a  dollar.  Still 


118          STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

I  did  not  take  warning.  I  bought  my  fourth  and 
last  ox  team. 

Determined  not  to  be  outdone  by  cold  weather, 
Indians,  or  rascals,  I  took  all  possible  precautions, 
and  drove  forth  to  war  with  destiny.  Not  a  man 
on  earth  could  have  bought  those  oxen  without  pay- 
ing cash  down;  and  I  guarded  them  so  closely  that 
the  Indians  could  not  have  stolen  them  without  tak- 
ing my  life.  I  fully  believed  that  I  was  equal  to 
the  emergency  of  taking  care  of  my  property,  but 
it  was  not  to  be.  On  a  beautiful  day,  near  the  Far- 
well  bend  of  Snake  river,  I  was  driving  along,  count- 
ing the  profits  on  my  load,  and  believing  the  goal 
already  won,  when  suddenly  a  cloud  appeared,  veil- 
ing the  sun  and  obscuring  the  designs  of  the  out- 
raged heavens.  A  moment  later  the  cloud  had 
parted,  a  bolt  of  fire  shot  forth,  and  three  of  my 
oxen  lay  dead  in  the  road — my  best  ones  too,  killed 
in  different  parts  of  the  team,  by  forked  lightning; 
and  as  the  thunder  pealed  and  then  went  chuckling 
off  toward  the  north  I  realized  that  I  was  in  the 
minority,  and  fought  no  more. 

This  is  a  digression  in  which  I  have  passed  over 
several  years  of  which  I  wish  to  speak,  and  I  will 
turn  to  Thomas  and  take  up  the  thread  of  my  narra- 
tive. We  separated  again,  and  before  the  snow  was 
gone  from  the  hills,  I  was  on  my  way  to  the  mines, 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE   MINES  119 

carrying  my  blankets  on  my  back,  while  he  re- 
mained at  Walla  Walla.  I  concluded  to  try  my  luck 
at  Oro  Fino  for  a  couple  of  months,  until  the  snow 
was  sufficiently  hardened  to  allow  me  to  reach  my 
claims  at  Elk  City.  We  found  Lewiston  had  grown 
during  the  hard  winter,  and  many  tents  had  given 
place  to  more  substantial  buildings.  The  big  saloon 
was  changed  to  wood,  with  walls  thick  enough  to 
stop  a  pistol  ball,  and  the  town  was  comparatively 
safe. 

From  this  place  the  trail  was  over  the  snow,  but 
it  was  settled  hard,  and  was  no  inconvenience  to 
traverse.  Oro  Fino  was  almost  buried  in  snow,  it 
having  been  shoveled  from  the  streets  and  banked 
up  on  either  side  higher  than  the  tops  of  the  low 
houses.  Throughout  the  winter  the  people  had  been 
penned  up  without  communication  with  the  outside 
world.  Flour,  bacon,  beans,  coffee  and  sugar  were 
plenty,  but  there  was  no  fresh  meat  nor  vegetables 
in  camp,  and  that  dreadful  disease,  scurvy,  was  not 
uncommon.  It  is  said  to  be  induced  by  eating  too 
much  salt  meat.  Fresh  meat  or  vegetables  are  pre- 
ventatives,  and  all  were  waiting  anxiously  for  the 
trains  of  pack  mules  to  come  and  bring  those  much- 
needed  articles. 

I  found  some  old  friends,  and  went  to  work  with 
them  in  a  small  gulch  which  empties  into  Moore's 


120          STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

creek.  The  snow  was  several  feet  deep,  but  had 
thawed  away  near  the  streams.  We  took  out  about 
$8  per  day  per  man,  and  it  was  a  pleasure  to  me  to 
once  more  commence  to  lay  up  a  fortune,  for  I  had 
by  no  means  abandoned  the  idea  of  making  one.  One 
day  I  took  a  near  cut  across  the  hills  to  town.  About 
half  a  mile  from  our  camp  I  came  across  a  little 
cabin  among  a  cluster  of  fir  trees.  Curiosity  led  me 
to  enter  it.  The  door  was  closed,  but  opened  easily 
at  a  slight  touch,  and  I  saw  before  me  on  a  miner's 
cot  what  caused  my  heart  to  stand  still — a  dead  man. 
He  was  lying  on  his  side,  covered,  except  the  head 
and  neck,  and  had  apparently  been  dead  some  time. 
I  made  but  a  cursory  examination,  and  hurried  back 
to  camp.  Gathering  a  few  men,  we  returned  to 
bury  the  body,  and  discover,  if  possible,  the  cause 
of  such  a  lonely  and  strange  death. 

There  were  no  marks  of  violence,  and  his  last  act 
seemed  to  have  been  to  compose  himself  as  if  to 
sleep.  Beside  his  head,  on  his  straw  pillow,  lay  a 
small  book,  in  which  he  had  kept  a  dairy  of  his 
doings  since  coming  to  the  cabin.  He  had  found  it 
deserted,  and  being  tired  and  sick,  had  concluded 
to  go  no  further  until  spring.  He  had  his  blankets, 
a  coffee  pot,  frying  pan,  and  a  small  stock  of  pro- 
visions. 

His  writing  showed  that  he  was  insane  when  he 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE   MINES  121 

arrived  at  the  cabin,  or  became  so  soon  after,  and 
had  deliberately  concluded  to  starve  when  his  slender 
stock  of  food  was  gone.  Each  day  he  had  made  an 
entry,  noting  the  condition  of  his  mind  and  body, 
and  sometimes  moralizing  on  the  depravity  and 
selfishness  of  mankind.  He  declared  that  money 
was  all  men  cared  for ;  that  he  had  once  had  money, 
and  was  loved  by  all ;  now  he  was  poor,  and  no  one 
cared  whether  he  lived  or  died ;  but  that  he  thought 
too  much  of  himself  to  ask  for  charity. 

He  had  fastened  strings  to  the  door  so  that  he 
could  open  and  shut  it  while  he  was  lying  in  bed. 
His  name,  if  given,  has  escaped  my  memory,  and  I 
do  not  know  whether  anything  more  was  ever  known 
of  him  than  was  gathered  at  that  hurried  inquest. 

The  body  had  been  frozen  stiff  for  two  months, 
and  was  lying  within  a  quarter  of  a  mile  of  plenty 
of  provisions,  and  of  generous  men,  who  would 
gladly  have  relieved  him  had  they  known  of  his  dis- 
tress. 

It  was  sad  to  know  a  human  being  had  died  for 
want  of  food — sad  to  contemplate  his  rash  resolve 
to  starve  rather  than  ask  a  crust  of  bread  of  men 
who  gave  as  free  as  air.  Yet  all  felt  it  was  his 
own  fault,  and  nothing  but  the  belief  that  he  was 
insane  prevented  a  tinge  of  censure  from  mingling 


122          STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

with  the  sorrow  felt,  as  he  was  laid  to  rest  beside 
the  cabin  where  he  died. 

Meantime  spring  was  coming  on,  the  streams  were 
swollen  by  the  melting  snow.  The  town  awoke  to 
shout  for  joy  to  see  the  mule  trains  coming  in,  and 
all  gave  promise  of  returning  life  and  activity.  Again 
the  merchant  opened  up  his  wares;  again  saloons 
were  filled,  and  pistols  popped  about  their  doors,  or 
bellowed  within  their  walls.  It  was  a  blessing  that 
there  were  many  poor  shots,  or  else  the  town  would 
have  been  depopulated  by  its  own  business  activity. 
It  was  strange  so  much  shooting  was  done  and  with 
so  little  malice.  Sometimes  shots  were  fired  by  Cal- 
if ornians  at  Webfeet,  just  for  fun. 

Jerome,  a  blooded  Irishman,  being  more  closely 
crowded  in  a  saloon  one  day  than  suited  his  taste, 
drew  a  dragoon  pistol,  and  laying  it  over  his 
shoulder,  fired  four  shots  at  the  packed  crowd  be- 
hind him.  The  first  shot  hit  a  man  in  the  temple, 
but  the  ball  glanced  around  the  skull  and  did  not 
kill  him.  The  other  three  were  avoided  by  men  who 
were  in  range,  by  dropping  down,  while  the  bullets 
passed  over  their  heads. 

The  saloon  was  quickly  emptied,  and  Jerome,  after 
breaking  all  the  bar  fixtures  and  reloading  his  pistol, 
walked  into  the  street  and  defied  arrest.  Tom  Can, 
the  deputy  sheriff,  placed  his  pistol  to  Jerome's  ear 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE   MINES  123 

and  told  him  to  surrender.  He  refused,  and  Tom  did 
not  shoot,  but  wound  his  arms  around  him  and  held 
him  fast.  He  was  taken  to  Lewiston  for  trial,  but 
was  never  punished,  and  came  back  to  camp.  He 
was  well  received  in  town,  the  sports  declaring  it 
was  quite  a  joke,  that  he  had  shown  no  malice,  but 
fired  among  the  crowd  quite  promiscuously,  and  just 
for  sport. 

Our  little  gulch  claim  was  soon  worked  out,  and 
the  snow  having  disappeared  from  the  hills,  I  again 
set  out  for  the  old  camp  at  Elk  City  in  company  with 
a  friend,  carrying  our  blankets  and  provisions  on 
our  backs.  Following  the  old  Lolo  trail,  a  day's 
tramp  brought  us  to  the  stream  of  that  name.  Here 
we  found  an  enterprising  Nez  Perce  Indian.  He 
had  built  a  large  bridge,  on  which  pack  animals 
could  cross,  and  was  collecting  toll.  He  charged  $1 
per  head  for  mules  and  horses,  and  insisted  on  mak- 
ing us  pay  the  same,  declaring  in  the  best  Chinook 
he  could  command  that  we  were  heavier  loaded  than 
any  animals  which  had  ever  crossed  his  bridge.  How 
we  all  love  praise !  We  paid  that  dollar  more  cheer- 
fully because  an  Indian  said  we  were  very  strong 
young  men,  and  our  loads  felt  lighter  when  remem- 
bering that  word  of  praise. 

The  second  day  we  stopped  at  noon  among  the 
spruce  trees.  My  companion  decided  to  have  some 


124  STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

spruce  tea.  He  said  it  was  very  good — superior,  in 
fact,  to  the  best  China  teas.  We  filled  our  coffee 
pot  with  the  green  boughs,  covered  them  with 
water,  and  while  our  bacon  was  frying,  made  our 
tea.  It  had  a  greenish  color  and  did  not  taste  well, 
but  by  using  plenty  of  sugar,  we  managed  to  drink 
about  a  pint  each ;  my  friend  declaring  that  whether 
we  liked  it  or  not,  it  was  good  for  our  health.  How 
shall  I  tell  the  sequel  ?  My  friend  grew  deathly  sick, 
and  I  was  soon  unable  to  render  him  any  assistance. 
He  rolled  and  tumbled,  gnashed  his  teeth  and  swore, 
while  I  was  half  beside  myself  with  fright  and  pair. 
I  fully  believed  we  were  poisoned  unto  the  death, 
and  that  a  few  minutes  would  end  our  sufferings, 
and  we  should  die  and  be  eaten  by  the  coyotes. 

It  was  not  a  pleasant  thought,  and  I  commenced 
to  think  of  remedies.  We  had  no  medicines  except 
a  small  box  of  anguentum,  intended  only  for  ex- 
ternal application,  and  I  was  afraid  it  would  prove 
another  poison  if  taken  into  the  stomach.  I  had 
once  doctored  a  sick  cow  with  lard,  and  concluded 
to  try  bacon  grease  on  my  partner,  and  if  it  did  not 
kill  him  I  would  try  some  myself.  He  declared  it 
was  of  no  use;  that  he  was  dying,  and  only  begged 
me,  if  I  survived,  to  tell  his  girl  that  he  died  think- 
ing of  her,  and  to  ask  her  not  to  marry  Lige  Howard. 
He  would  not  take  my  medicine,  and  I  placed  the 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE   MINES  125 

cup  to  his  lips  and  forced  him  to  drink  half  a  pint 
of  warm  grease.  The  effect  was  magical.  He  was 
relieved  instantly,  and  I  proceeded  to  fry  a  little 
more  bacon  that  I  might  relieve  my  own  suffering. 

I  am  not  a  chemist,  nor  a  physician,  and  do  not 
know  whether  we  made  a  great  discovery  or  not. 
I  simply  point  the  physician's  telescope  to  this  por- 
tion of  the  medical  horizon,  believing  there  are  stars 
there  of  the  first  magnitude  awaiting  discovery. 
After  two  days'  convalescence  we  were  able  to  travel, 
but  during  our  entire  journey  our  loads  felt  heavier 
from  the  effects  of  spruce  tea. 

Elk  City  had  already  awoke  from  its  winter  nap. 
Crowds  were  in  the  streets,  and  unsuccessful  miners 
from  Florence  were  opening  up  their  old  claims  with 
something  of  the  resignation  a  man  feels  when  he 
pays  court  to  his  old  sweetheart,  after  having  wasted 
his  substance  in  riotous  living,  while  vainly 
pursuing  some  dashing  belle.  Florence  had  proved 
an  ignis  fatus  to  the  greater  number  who  had  gone 
there,  and  we  returned  to  our  little  camps  resigned 
to  our  lot,  determined  to  work  industriously  and 
roam  no  more. 


Adventures  in  the  Mines. 


VI. 


My  journey  through  the  mountains  had  given  me 
a  taste  for  travel,  and  I  soon  tired  of  mining  and 
sold  my  claim  for  $1,800,  and  concluded  to  try  pack- 
ing. As  all  supplies  were  brought  on  pack  animals, 
this  was  a  lucrative  business,  and  I  figured  my 
profits  by  the  thousands,  and  again  expected  to  be 
able  to  go  home  in  the  fall,  and  exhibit  my  gold  and 
tell  of  my  adventures  and  quietly  settle  down  among 
my  Webfoot  brethren.  These  thoughts  cheered  me 
as  I  enlisted  a  few  vicious  mules  and  sinful  cayuses 
under  my  banner,  and  endeavored  to  discipline  them 
to  the  art  of  carrying  flour  and  bacon,  picks,  shovels, 
etc.,  upon  their  backs.  It  so  happened  that  none  of 
them  had  ever  been  packed,  and  all  of  them  were 
determined  they  never  would  be.  The  antics  they 
cut  when  turned  loose  with  packs  upon  their  backs 
was  a  menagerie  worth  seeing,  but  after  tiring  them- 
selves out,  they  submitted  and  were  driven  along 
quietly,  but  wearing  a  very  dejected  look.  There 


128          STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

is  something  pathetic  in  seeing  a  fine  horse  reluc- 
tantly yield  his  sovereignty  and  submit  to  a  life  of 
drudgery.  I  made  several  trips  from  Lewiston  to 
Elk  City  and  Oro  Fino,  realizing  fair  profits,  but 
falling  far  short  of  my  expectations. 

The  mining  season  was  again  drawing  to  a  close, 
and  when  the  mountain  tops  were  whitened  by  the 
early  snows,  the  miners  began  to  leave  the  chilly 
gulches  and  seek  more  comfortable  winter  quarters. 
For  the  last  time  I  bid  adieu  to  Elk  City,  the  place 
of  my  first  mining  operation,  and  again  started  on 
my  way  to  the  land  where  red  apples  were  being 
gathered,  and  red-cheeked  girls  were  watching  from 
rude  doorways  for  the  return  of  the  gold  hunters. 
At  the  Cold  Springs,  on  Camas  Prairie,  we  inter- 
cepted the  line  of  travel  from  Florence.  Some  were 
loaded  down  with  gold,  but  many  were  poorer  than 
when  they  came.  Several  of  those  we  met  had  been 
robbed  by  highwaymen,  having  gone  through  the 
trying  ordeal  of  looking  into  the  open  end  of  a  shot- 
gun while  their  pockets  were  being  rifled. 

This  species  of  speculation  was  carried  on  by 
day  and  night,  and  had  become  so  common  that  it 
was  difficult  for  one  to  get  through  from  Florence 
with  gold  dust,  unless  accompanied  by  a  strong 
guard  of  armed  men.  As  we  arrived  at  Lewiston, 
the  Walla  Walla  stage  drew  up,  guarded  by  six 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE   MINES  129 

horsemen,  and  carrying  as  prisoners  Dave  English, 
Nelson  Scott,  and  Billy  Peoples.  They  had  been  tak- 
ing purses  right  and  left  along  the  road  between 
Lewiston  and  Florence,  and  were  considered  three 
of  the  worst  men  in  the  whole  mining  region.  Their 
latest  exploit  was  to  rob  an  old  friend  by  the  name 
of  Berry.  They  were  not  masked,  and  Berry  knew 
them  quite  well,  and  protested  against  their  robbing 
an  old  acquaintance.  They  took  about  $6,000  from 
him.  Dave  English  remarked  that  "dead  men  tell 
no  tales."  Berry  thought  his  last  hour  had  come,  but 
owed  his  life  to  the  generosity  of  Scott,  who  said : 

"No;  he  is  a  good  man;  we  will  not  kill  him,  al- 
though we  may  hang  for  taking  his  money." 

They  bade  him  good-bye,  and  trusted  to  the  fleet- 
ness  of  their  horses  to  escape  the  pursuit  which 
they  knew  would  be  made.  The  robbery  took  place 
on  White  Bird  creek.  The  three  men  rode  together 
until  they  were  some  distance  below  Lewiston,  when 
they  separated,  Scott  and  Peoples  going  to  Walla 
Walla,  while  English  headed  his  now  tired  horse 
toward  Wallula.  Meanwhile,  Berry  was  not  idle, 
and  this  time  revenge  was  swifter  than  self-preser- 
vation, for  when  English,  in  the  early  dawn,  rode 
across  the  sandhill  to  Wallula,  Berry,  looking  from 
a  window,  saw  him  coming  and  quickly  made  prep- 
arations for  his  reception.  He  dismounted  and 


130          STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

entered  the  saloon  where  his  victim  and  others 
awaited  him.  He  was  asked  to  take  a  drink,  and 
as  he  reached  the  bar  he  was  confronted  with  a 
shotgun.  Glancing  around,  he  saw  a  pistol  at  each 
ear,  while  the  muzzle  of  another  gun  touched  the 
back  of  his  head.  Resistance  would  have  been  cer- 
tain death,  and  all  men  shrink  from  that. 

He  smiled  as  he  said: 

"Well,  boys,  you  played  it  pretty  fine,  but  let  us 
have  a  drink  before  the  irons  are  put  on  me." 

The  irons  came  first  and  then  the  drink,  in  which 
Berry  joined,  in  honor  of  the  occasion,  no  doubt  re- 
membering his  prisoner's  significant  remark  when 
last  they  parted.  Scott  was  taken  at  Walla  Walla, 
and  Peoples  was  taken  somewhere  in  that  vicinity. 

English,  with  his  parents,  was  for  many  years 
a  resident  of  the  lower  part  of  Benton  county.  He 
devoted  his  time  to  drinking,  horse  racing,  fighting, 
etc.,  and  was  known  as  a  reckless  man. 

Scott  lived  in  the  upper  part  of  Linn  county.  He 
was  a  generous  light-hearted  man.  He  was  married 
to  a  beautiful  girl,  but  became  addicted  to  drinking, 
and  went  steadily  down  until  the  irons  were  upon 
his  wrists. 

Scott  and  English  were  both  large,  handsome  men, 
but  Peoples  was  a  little  black  imp  about  four  feet 
high,  who  looked  the  villain  that  he  was.  A  little 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE   MINES  131 

chip  cast  off  in  Nature's  mint,  just  large  enough  to 
receive  half  the  stamp  of  man.  He  came  to  Oregon 
with  Marshall's  circus,  the  first  one  which  had  ever 
exhibited  here,  and  had  been  a  drunkard  all  his  life. 

As  has  been  said,  they  came  under  guard  to 
Lewiston,  on  their  way  to  Florence  for  trial.  But 
they  had  many  friends  who  determined  to  set  them 
at  liberty  without  the  ceremony  of  a  trial.  The 
whole  whisky  element  of  the  town  was  enlisted  in 
their  cause.  It  is  strange  how  drink  will  level  rank 
and  bring  the  high  born  down  to  stand  with  thieves 
and  robbers.  Marshall,  the  old  showman,  was  there, 
and  headed  the  crowd  to  take  the  prisoners  from 
the  guards.  Then  the  better  element  of  the  city 
arose  to  throw  itself  around  the  jail  and  stand  be- 
tween the  prisoners  and  their  reckless  friends. 

It  was  a  dark  and  chilly  night,  and  those  who 
stood  with  arms  in  hand  and  listened  to  the  frenzied 
shouts  of  the  wild  mob  as  it  ranged  the  town,  firing 
shots  and  drinking  on  to  wild  insanity,  will  not  soon 
forget  their  impressions  nor  the  temperance  lecture 
thundered  forth  by  those  wild  orgies. 

From  time  to  time,  reports  of  the  coming  of  the 
reckless  crowd  of  revellers  were  brought  to  the 
guards,  who  were  lessening  in  number,  as  timid  men 
crept  away  to  avoid  what  seemed  to  be  an  inevitable 
conflict.  Still,  about  fifty  determined  men  stood 


132          STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

around  the  little  shanty  where  the  prisoners  were 
anxiously  awaiting  the  coming  of  their  friends,  who, 
they  felt  sure,  would  release  them. 

One  half  the  night  had  worn  away,  when  Mar- 
shall, growing  impatient,  came  down  upon  the 
guards  alone.  It  was  pitch  dark,  and  on  the  damp 
ground  his  footfalls  made  no  sound.  Suddenly  a 
bright  flame  shot  forth,  followed  by  another,  and 
two  men  lay  wounded  on  the  ground. 

Although  the  men  had  stood  for  hours  with  pistols 
in  their  hands,  peering  through  the  darkness  to  find 
a  foe,  they  seemed  to  be  taken  by  surprise,  and  for 
a  moment  no  one  returned  the  fire.  Then,  as  Mar- 
shall's outline  was  discovered  in  the  darkness,  a 
single  pistol  cracked  and  he  fell,  but  recovered  him- 
self and  ran  away  before  another  shot  was  fired. 
Then  all  the  latent  fury  of  patient  men  broke  forth. 
The  prisoners  were  told  that  they  must  die.  English 
and  Peoples  begged  for  mercy,  but  Scott  made  no 
appeal.  Taking  a  ring  from  his  finger,  he  quietly 
asked  that  it  might  be  taken  to  his  wife,  and  then, 
doubling  up  his  chains,  he  dealt  blows  right  and 
left,  with  desperate  might  and  almost  superhuman 
energy. 

The  night  wore  on,  and  still  the  robbers'  friends 
were  drinking.  And  when  morning  came  the  guarda 
were  gone,  and  stillness  reigned  about  the  jail.  All 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  MINES  133 

but  the  revellers  knew  what  this  meant,  and  when 
they  ventured  to  look,  they  found  the  three  men 
hanging  to  the  low  joists  of  the  little  building  which 
had  served  as  their  jail  the  night  before.  Marshall 
and  the  men  he  shot  recovered;  the  roughs  sought 
other  scenes,  and  for  a  time  Lewiston  was  quiet. 

Many  people  are  opposed  to  hanging  men  under 
any  circumstances  except  after  due  process  of  law, 
but  this  action  of  the  Lewiston  people  was  induced 
by  peculiar  and  aggravating  circumstances,  and  was 
applauded  by  the  best  element  of  the  community.  As 
for  myself,  I  was  thankful  that  I  had  escaped  be- 
ing robbed,  shot,  or  hanged,  and  went  on  my  way 
rejoicing  that  it  was  my  Webfoot  brethren  instead 
of  myself,  over  whom  a  post  mortem  examination 
was  being  held.  This  reminds  one  that  our  opinion 
of  mob  law  is  likely  to  be  influenced  by  the  ques- 
tion of  who  is  to  be  hanged. 

At  Walla  Walla  I  received  news  from  home  which 
did  not  please  me  very  well.  I  was  not  pleased  at 
all;  in  fact,  I  was  disgusted.  The  first  thing  I  did 
was  to  take  a  walk;  this  did  not  relieve  me,  and  I 
came  back  and  took  a  ride.  Feeling  no  better,  I 
went  down  town  and  got  into  a  fight.  My  antagonist 
was  severely  punished,  but  still  I  grew  worse.  When 
I  reached  camp  my  companions  were  asleep.  I  built 
up  a  large  fire  and  sat  down  and  whistled  a  few 


134          STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

tunes ;  then  I  tried  a  song.    I  sang  all  the  old  songs 
I  knew. 

"Music  hath  charms  to  soothe  the  savage  beast," 
and  after  a  while  I  grew  calm  and  composed  a  few 
lines  of  pacific  poetry.  Here  are  a  few  verses : 

Come  Satan's  muse  and  breathe  a  spell 
In  concord  with  these  thoughts  of  mine; 

Come  forth,  ye  savage  wits  of  hell, 
And  set  hell's  music  to  my  rhyme. 

For  I  have  loved  and  all  in  vain; 

Have  felt  its  bitter  pangs  full  deep, 
And  in  my  soul  there  is  a  pain 

O'er  which  the  demons  well  might  weep. 

I  wrote  some  twenty  verses  in  this  quiet  strain, 
and  finally  finished  with  this : 

Time  may  try  in  vain  to  heal 

Wounds  which  laugh  to  scorn  his  art, 

Try  in  vain  the  pulse  to  feel, 

Which  throbs  around  a  broken  heart. 


I  went  away  from  camp  so  I  could  not  be  heard 
by  my  excited  companions,  and  repeated  the  lines 
I  had  composed,  until  my  soul  grew  calm;  then  I 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE   MINES  135 

came  back,  and  by  the  light  of  the  fire  wrote  the  fol- 
lowing : 

Breathes  there  a  woman  'neath  the  skies 
Who  dares  to  say  she  loves  a  man? 

Deep  in  her  throat  the  vixen  lies — 
Man  only  loves,  man  only  can. 

The  remainder  of  the  night  was  passed  in  similar 
musings.  In  the  morning  I  saddled  my  horse  and 
rode  into  the  hills  to  contemplate  the  situation.  I 
was  going  through  the  most  trying  ordeal  of  a 
young  man's  life.  It  was  strange  I  was  not  dis- 
turbed. I  contemplated  my  equanimity,  and  felt 
proud  that  nothing  could  disturb  my  serenity  of 
mind. 

I  spent  the  day  among  the  hills,  shooting  at 
badgers  and  prairie  chickens,  and  returned  at  night 
with  my  mind  filled  with  the  nebulae  of  grand  reso- 
lutions. 

They  were  so  indistinct  that  I  could  not  discern 
what  form  they  were  likely  to  assume,  but  I  felt  a 
distinct  presentiment  that  I  was  destined  to  ride  on 
the  topmost  crest  of  something.  I  racked  my  brain 
to  find  out  what  this  should  be. 

I  thought  a  first-class  desperado  would  attract  at- 
tention and  make  the  world  tremble.  I  was  a  good 
shot,  and  knew  many  people  I  would  like  to  kill; 


136          STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

but  this  kind  of  amusement  had  its  drawbacks.  I 
had  been  on  the  frontier  long  enough  to  learn  that 
even  there  "the  way  of  the  transgressor  is  hard." 

Then  I  thought  I  would  be  a  missionary  and  de- 
vote my  life  to  converting  the  heathen;  but  after 
thinking  this  over,  I  concluded  not  to  devote  my  life 
any  more,  but  to  go  to  the  Boise  mines,  spend  the 
winter  mining,  and  then  hunt  buffalo  on  the  plains ; 
or  to  do  battle  with  the  warlike  Sioux. 

I  loaded  my  train  with  a  general  outfit  of  pro- 
visions, and  made  my  way  over  the  Blue  mountains 
to  the  Grand  Ronde  valley.  Here  I  met  William 
Brittain,  an  old  friend  and  schoolmate,  who  per- 
suade^ me  to  camp  until  he  had  time  to  talk  to 
me.  He  talked  four  days,  at  the  end  of  which  time 
I  agreed  to  stay  with  him  in  the  valley  until  spring. 
We  located  claims  on  the  ground  where  Summerville 
now  stands,  built  a  comfortable  cabin,  and  made 
preparations  for  a  winter's  stay  among  the  immi- 
grants who  were  settling  up  the  land.  One  day  I  re- 
ceived a  letter  which  pleased  me.  I  was  very  much 
pleased ;  in  fact,  I  was  delighted.  It  proved  that  the 
news  I  heard  at  Walla  Walla  was  false,  and  I  aban- 
doned all  idea  of  hunting  buffalo,  turning  desperado, 
or  being  a  missionary.  I  would  run  my  pack  train 
another  season,  sell  out,  and  go  home  in  the  fall. 

In  the  meantime  I  heard  of  Thomas.    Where  was 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  MINES  137 

he,  and  what  had  he  been  doing  all  this  time?  He 
has  been  neglected,  slighted,  and  ignored,  but  not 
forgotten.  Of  course  the  reader  has  noticed  this. 
The  fact  is,  not  being  a  novelist,  I  cannot  write  of 
more  than  one  man  at  a  time,  and  in  this  dilemma 
have  been  absolutely  unable  to  tell  of  what  Thomas 
did.  But  you  shall  know,  Thomas  had  adventures. 

He  has  been  cast  down,  and  has  been  lifted  up; 
he  has  fallen  from  grace,  has  rejoiced  again.  Hope's 
beaming  eyes  have  looked  upon  wealth.  Despair's 
leaden  orbs  have  turned  to  a  life  of  poverty,  and 
over  his  life,  as  over  mine,  sunshine  and  shadow 
have  held  alternate  sway. 

Our  preparations  for  winter  were  scarcely  com- 
pleted when  snow  fell  to  the  depth  of  two  and  one- 
half  feet  in  the  valley,  while  the  mountains  were 
covered  with  from  six  to  ten  feet,  and  all  communi- 
cation with  the  outside  world  was  cut  off.  As  soon 
as  the  snow  settled  so  as  to  admit  of  sleighing,  Wil- 
liam and  I  extemporized  a  set  of  harness  out  of 
saddle  cinches  and  bale  rope,  made  a  rude  sleigh, 
harnessed  up  a  couple  of  pack  horses,  and  made  a 
tour  of  the  valley.  Our  intention  was  to  find  out 
what  our  resources  for  amusement  and  comfort 
were,  and  what  kind  of  company  we  should  have 
during  the  winter.  In  the  north  end  of  the  valley 
near  where  we  built  our  cabin,  was  a  settlement 


138          STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

of  Scotch  immigrants;  they  spoke  very  little  Eng- 
lish, and  were  nearly  destitute  of  worldly  goods, 
having  exhausted  their  means  in  making  the  long 
journey  overland  from  the  East.  Further  south,  on 
the  west  side,  was  an  Iowa  encampment,  consisting 
of  about  sixty  lowans  who  arrived  late  in  the  fall 
and  encamped  for  the  winter  in  the  same  manner 
in  which  they  were  accustomed  to  on  the  plains. 
Here  we  found  some  very  pleasant  people,  among 
whom  were  Doctors  Paten  and  Boswell,  afterwards 
known  in  the  Willamette  valley.  Half  a  dozen  log 
houses  in  the  southwest  corner  of  the  valley  formed 
the  town  of  La  Grande,  and  a  straggling  settlement 
confined  to  the  foothills  completed  the  circuit  to  our 
place  of  starting.  The  valley  proper  was  almost 
entirely  unoccupied.  For  some  cause,  the  first  set- 
tlers of  a  country  rarely  ever  select  the  best  land — 
witness  Oregon  valleys.  The  foothills  were  mostly 
settled  between  the  year  1845  and  1849,  while  much 
of  the  beautiful  prairie  was  located  in  the  '50s.  This 
was  true  also  of  the  Walla  Walla  and  Palouse  coun- 
tries, of  Powder  River  and  Boise  valleys,  and  I  am 
told  similar  mistakes  were  made  in  the  early  settle- 
ment in  nearly  all  the  country  from  the  Atlantic  to 
the  Pacific  coast.  Our  trip  completed,  we  knew  what 
our  surroundings  were,  and  prepared  to  have  a 
grand  time. 
Our  neighbors  were,  weary  from  their  long  jour- 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE   MINES  139 

ney,  having  been  very  gradually  moved  two  thou- 
sand miles  by  the  slowest  of  all  work  animals — the 
ox.  The  patient  ox !  He  is  very  slow  and  very  sure, 
but  his  race  is  run.  He  has  hauled  civilization 
around  the  earth.  He  started  at  the  rising  sun,  with 
a  stick  across  his  brow,  and  traversed  half  his  cir- 
cuit with  scarcely  a  pause;  then  waited  patiently 
until  the  stick  was  unbound  from  his  throbbing  tem- 
ples ;  an  easy  yoke  was  placed  upon  his  back ;  waited 
until  his  masters  learned  to  build  ships  and  traverse 
oceans;  then  he  came  across  the  great  waters  and 
took  up  his  line  of  march  across  the  American  con- 
tinent. Faithful  and  true,  in  the  new  world  as 
in  the  old,  he  has  crossed  our  mountains,  traversed 
our  deserts,  and  at  last  has  bathed  his  tired  feet  in 
the  golden  waters  of  the  Pacific.  His  work  is  done ; 
we  shall  never  hear  from  him  again.  Peace  to  his 
bones. 

William  soon  became  a  great  favorite  among  the 
Scotch  girls,  who  looked  upon  him  as  a  prodigy 
of  learning.  He  was,  however,  only  educated  at 
one  end,  being  able  to  dance  splendidly;  but  this 
answered  all  purposes.  I  was  not  anxious  to  make 
conquests  myself,  but  took  great  pride  in  the  way 
William  seemed  to  capture  young  and  old  every- 
where he  went.  After  awhile,  and  without  any 
premonitory  symptoms,  I  found  myself  much  court- 


140          STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

ed,  and  could  not  account  for  it.  The  affection  of 
the  whole  settlement  seemed  to  be  transferred  to 
me.  After  William  had  suffered  by  being  slighted 
for  some  time,  and  I  had  rejoiced  in  my  new  found 
popularity,  we  accidentally  discovered  the  cause  of 
the  change.  Just  before  the  snow  had  fallen,  I  had 
brought  fifty  bushels  of  potatoes  on  my  pack  train 
from  Walla  Walla,  and  had  them  all  nicely  stored 
away,  intending  to  put  in  a  large  crop  in  the  spring. 
By  some  means,  the  people  who  knew  about  the 
potatoes  being  brought  over,  came  to  believe  they 
belonged  to  William,  and  they  were  all  courting  him 
with  a  view  to  securing  a  few  bushels  for  seed. 
After  it  became  known  that  I  was  the  sole  owner  of 
those  potatoes,  William  was  never  mentioned  again, 
and  I  enjoyed  undisturbed  my  new  and  novel  popu- 
larity. 

The  snow  having  melted  away  in  the  upper  part 
of  the  valley,  a  number  of  packers  came  down  on 
their  return  from  Boise  to  winter.  Then  we  had 
high  times. 

Dances  were  given  at  the  cabins  alternately.  The 
rooms  were  small,  the  floors  were  rough,  and  the 
fare  of  the  rudest  kind,  consisting  sometimes  of 
only  bread  and  meat.  Yet  I  have  never  known 
dancing  to  be  so  recklessly  enjoyed  before  nor  since. 
The  packers  all  danced  with  pistols  in  their  belts. 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE  MINES  141 

and  the  girls  seemed  to  favor  the  one  who  was 
armed  the  most  formidably  and  danced  in  the  most 
extravagant  manner.  The  first  dance  which  we  at- 
tended was  at  a  cabin  near  La  Grande.  The  girls 
wore  neat  homespun  dresses,  while  the  boys  re- 
joiced in  woolen  shirts  and  blue  denim  overalls.  The 
supper  was  something  unusual,  consisting  of  bread, 
bacon,  cabbage  and  potatoes.  Everything  went  on 
merrily  until  after  supper,  when  some  one  came 
from  town  with  a  jug  of  whiskey. 

The  drinking  of  this  produced  the  same  effect 
which  it  always  has  since  alcohol  was  distilled,  and 
soon  these  dancers  forgot  they  were  brothers  and 
that  their  sisters  were  with  them,  and  engaged  in 
meaningless  quarrels.  Harmless  words,  which  an 
hour  before  would  have  produced  a  merry  laugh, 
were  construed  into  deadly  insults.  Timid  girls 
forsook  the  company  of  those  whom  they  had  begun 
to  trust  and  love,  and  huddled  together  in  mortal 
fear  of  the  very  ones  whom  God  has  designed  as 
their  natural  protectors.  A  fight  was  in  progress, 
in  which  the  flash  of  the  pistol  answered  the  gleam 
of  the  knife,  and  when  the  conflict  ceased  all  joy 
was  gone;  men  lay  bruised  and  bleeding,  and  one 
poor  fellow,  Joshua  Goodwin,  lay  moaning  with  a 
bullet  in  his  brain. 

When  spring  came  and  the  grass  began  to  grow 


142          STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

again,  I  loaded  my  pack  train  for  Placerville,  Idaho. 
The  route  was  along  the  old  immigrant  road  most 
of  the  way,  and  I  readily  recognized  the  camping 
places  at  which  we  stopped  in  crossing  the  plains. 
How  natural  they  looked;  although  ten  years  had 
passed.  At  Powder  River  valley  I  went  to  look 
for  my  mother's  grave,  but  could  not  find  it.  The 
burning  of  the  grass  and  sage  brush  had  destroyed 
what  marks  we  had  left,  and  I  could  not  locate 
the  spot. 

I  found  Placerville  a  flourishing  mining  town, 
where  I  sold  my  cargo  at  a  good  profit.  Money  was 
plenty  and  prices  good ;  so  good,  in  fact,  that  I  sold 
out  my  train  and  went  to  mining.  Throughout  the 
season  I  did  very  well,  but  was  not  content,  and 
about  the  first  of  August  prepared  to  go  freighting 
again,  having  now  sufficient  money  to  give  me  a 
good  start  in  the  business.  Hearing  that  some  gov- 
ernment mule  teams  were  to  be  sold  at  Boise  City, 
I  went  down  there  to  see  about  them.  Here  I  was 
much  pleased  to  meet  an  old  schoolmate,  Dave  Snell, 
a  splendid  and  bright  fellow,  known  far  and  near 
as  the  most  daring  young  scamp  in  Oregon.  He  was 
just  about  taking  the  stage  for  home,  and  it  was 
only  an  accident  that  I  met  him.  However,  he  stayed 
another  day  to  have  a  talk,  and  we  took  a  room  at 
the  hotel  together.  Of  course  we  had  much  to  talk 


ADVENTURES  IN  THE   MINES  143 

about,  but  it  was  hard  to  talk  of  anything  but  the 
war.  News  was  coming  in  every  few  days. 

Dave  drew  from  his  pocket  a  paper,  and  read  to 
me  some  account  of  recent  battles  in  which  the  name 
of  Colonel  Dobbins  was  mentioned.  Dave  laid  the 
paper  down,  laughed,  and  said :  "Of  course  you  don't 
know  how  Captain  Dobbins  came  to  be  called  back 
East  where  he  had  a  chance  for  promotion." 

"No,"  I  answered,  "never  heard  of  him  before. 
Who  is  he?" 

"If  you  think  we  have  time  enough  for  me  to  tell 
rather  a  long  story,"  said  he,  "I  will  tell  you  how 
Captain  Dobbins  was  promoted." 

Knowing  Dave  was  a  capital  talker,  and  always 
engaged  in  some  adventure,  I  insisted  on  his  telling 
me  the  story. 

He  told  the  following  story: 


i 


How  Captain  Dobbins  Was  Promoted. 


VII. 


Well,  I  came  up  here  to  mine,  came  with  the 
first  rush.  I  was  not  lucky  enough  to  get  a  good 
claim  on  any  of  the  creeks,  but  located  a  claim  on  a 
little  gulch;  so  last  spring  found  me  digging  away 
industriously  in  a  little  gulch  one  mile  from  Placer- 
ville,  Idaho.  I  had  found  a  fair  prospect,  and  for 
some  time  had  great  hopes  of  filling  a  good  sized 
wallet  before  the  season  closed;  but  when  I  had 
gotten  my  claim  open  ready  to  work,  the  rain  ceased, 
and  my  supply  of  water  failed  rapidly  and  was  not 
sufficient  to  run  the  sluices.  This  was  a  sore  dis- 
appointment. There  were  strong  reasons  why  I 
wished  to  make  money  enough  to  return  to  the  Wil- 
lamette valley  and  purchase  a  little  farm,  which,  all 
unknown  to  the  owner,  I  had  been  for  the  last  two 
years  converting  into  a  modern  farm  of  my  own. 

In  my  imagination  I  had  purchased  this  farm 
many  times,  always  cash  down,  for  I  was  resolved 
never  to  be  in  debt.  In  the  same  pleasant  and  easy 


146          STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

way,  every  acre  of  it  had  been  vastly  improved.  The 
spring  beyond  the  garden  was  coaxed  through  a  pipe, 
and  bubbled  from  a  polished  faucet  in  the  kitchen. 
The  struggling  grape  vines  were  trained  into  an 
arbor  leading  from  the  gate  to  the  front  door.  Fine 
blooded  horses  and  cattle  sported  in  the  pastures, 
and  flowers  shed  sweet  perfume  all  about.  I  had 
also  drained  the  marsh  beyond  the  barn,  and  erected 
a  neat  little  woodshed,  with  hop  vines  clustering 
about  the  eaves.  These  pleasing  fancies  were  gen- 
erally indulged  in  as  1  sat  alone  in  my  cabin  when 
my  day's  work  was  done,  and  I  had  nothing  else  to 
do.  My  designs  on  this  farm  were  kept  strictly 
private.  Only  once,  before  leaving  home,  had  they 
been  told  in  a  burst  of  confidence,  to  one  who  I 
trusted  would  sympathize  with  my  hopes  and  en- 
courage my  daring  ambition.  I  did  not  mistake  her, 
as  it  seemed  an  easy  thing  to  her  for  me  to  dig  a 
little  gold  from  the  ground,  return,  buy  as  much 
land  as  we  wanted,  and  make  all  improvements  we 
might  think  necessary.  Her  trusting  nature  could 
not  think  it  possible  for  me  to  fail  in  any  under- 
taking, and  she  immediately  began  to  straighten  up 
the  little  farm  herself.  Her  first  work  was  to  pull 
down  a  crooked  fence  and  burn  the  rickety  woodshed. 


HOW  CAPTAIN  DOBBINS  WAS  PROMOTED          147 

It  was  wonderful  how  much  better  everything  looked 
after  she  had  talked  five  minutes. 

But  that  is  another  story  than  the  one  which  I 
set  out  to  tell  you.  It  has  not  been  mentioned  by 
accident,  nor  because  at  this  date  it  is  still  uppermost 
in  my  mind,  but  for  the  purpose  of  offering  a  palli- 
ation, if  not  an  excuse,  for  the  part  which  I  took  in 
the  promotion  of  Captain  Dobbins. 

One  day,  about  the  first  of  June,  I  went  up  town 
for  some  provisions,  scarcely  knowing  whether  to 
return  to  work  my  claim  or  not. 

Placerville,  as  you  know,  is  laid  out  with  a  plaza 
in  the  center.  This  plaza  is  about  two  hundred  feet 
square  and  is  a  favorite  place  to  exhibit  horses,  as 
well  as  to  display  horsemanship.  When  I  arrived, 
a  vicious  Mexican  broncho  had  just  thrown  its  rider 
on  the  square,  and  another  plucky  fellow  was  pre- 
paring to  mount.  He  had  scarcely  touched  the  sad- 
dle until  he  was  sprawling  on  the  ground,  and  the 
victorious  horse  ran  back  to  his  stable.  He  was 
again  brought  out,  and  a  Mexican,  a  celebrated 
"Vaquero,"  placed  his  foot  in  the  stirrup  and  swung 
himself  gracefully  into  the  saddle.  This  was  a  hard 
contest.  It  was  Mexico  against  Mexico,  and  rider 
and  horse  played  their  parts  well  for  some  time. 
The  Mexican  rode  for  conquest,  but  the  horse  strug- 
gled for  liberty.  At  last  liberty  won,  and  the  Mexi- 


148          STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

can  lay  on  the  ground.    A  roar  of  laughter  from  the 
by-standers  followed  his  fall,  and  no  one  seemed  in- 
clined to  further  contest  supremacy  with  the  wiry 
steed.    I  had  been  deeply  interested  in  this  struggle, 
and  my  blood  had  warmed  in  witnessing  the  courage 
and  skill  displayed  by  the  Mexican,  and  did  not  feel 
like  laughing  at  his  fall.    Being  a  horseman  I  knew 
how  well  he  rode,  and  had  noted  the  peculiar  trick 
by  which  he  had  been  thrown.    When  he  arose  with 
a  badly  sprained  ankle,  and  was  unable  to  mount 
again,  I  assisted  him  to  the  sidewalk  and  said : 
"If  it  will  not  offend  you,  I  will  ride  that  horse." 
A  shout  of  derision  greeted  me  from  all  sides. 
That  settled   it.     I   sprang  into  the  saddle.     The 
horse  seemed  to  know  that  I  was  his  master  the 
moment  I  had  touched  the  reins,  and  would  have 
behaved  quietly  enough  had  I  wished  him  to;  but  it 
was  not  my  intention  to  ride  quietly  around  while 
a  hundred  miners  were  looking  on,  not  one  of  whom 
believed  that  I  could  ride  a  horse  which  had  thrown 
that  Mexican.    I  therefore  bullied  the  horse  into  re- 
bellion and  forced  him  to  do  his  best,  using  every 
trick  to  make  him  jump,  and  jump  he  did,  until  he 
was  thoroughly  tired.    The  admiration  of  the  crowd 
was  won  at  last.    Even  the  much  discomfited  Spani- 


HOW  CAPTAIN  DOBBINS  WAS  PROMOTED          149 

#rd,  standing  on  one  foot,  swung  his  "sombreo"  and 
cried:  "Much  a  buen,  Senor." 

A  leather  "rieta"  was  done  up  in  a  neat  coil  and 
fastened  to  the  croup  of  the  saddle.  This  I  undone 
and  gave  some  exhibit  of  my  skill  with  a  lasso. 
Darting  towards  any  object  which  offered  a  mark, 
I  threw  my  rope  upon  it  and  performed  various 
feats  until  the  crowd  gave  me  cheers  to  my  heart's 
content.  When  I  dismounted,  a  stranger  inquired 
where  I  had  learned  to  ride. 

"In  Oregon,"  I  answered. 

"Can  all  the  boys  ride  that  way  in  Oregon?" 

"Probably  not,  but  all  the  young  men  can  ride 
well  and  are  not  afraid  of  a  wild  colt." 

"Can  you  shoot  a  rifle  and  pistol?" 

With  some  pride  I  answered :  "I  have  never  been 
beaten  with  either." 

"What  are  you  doing?" 

"Mining." 

"Have  you  a  good  claim?" 

"A  good  claim,  but  no  water." 

"Ah !  What  are  you  going  to  do  ?  You  don't  look 
like  a  man  who  would  sit  in  his  cabin  and  wait  for 
it  to  rain." 

"I  don't  know.    I  may  go  prospecting." 

After  a  moment's  scrutiny,  in  which  he  looked  me 


150  STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

over  thoroughly,  he  said :  "I  should  like  to  see  your 
claim.  May  I  go  with  you  to  your  cabin?" 

As  we  walked  along  I  had  an  opportunity  to  ob- 
serve my  strange  companion.  He  was  about  28  or 
30  years  of  age,  five  feet  ten  inches  in  height,  and 
weighed,  as  I  afterward  learned,  165  pounds.  His 
hair  and  eyes  were  black  and  he  was  badly  sun- 
burned, which  gave  him  a  reddish  brown  color,  near- 
ly as  dark  as  an  Indian.  He  was  decidedly  a  hand- 
some fellow,  with  frank  open  countenance,  but  there 
was  a  daredevil  look  about  him  which  made  me 
wonder  who  he  was. 

When  we  were  seated  in  my  cabin,  he  said :  "Now 
I  have  asked  a  great  many  questions  and,  of  course, 
you  want  to  know  why  I  have  sought  your  acquaint- 
ance. I  learned  from  one  of  the  miners  while  you 
were  riding  that  your  name  is  David  Snell.  My 
name  is  Bob  Fitzhugh.  I  have  been  on  the  plains 
since  I  was  a  boy,  and  have  sometimes  acted  as  a 
scout  for  Uncle  Sam.  You  may  have  heard  of  me. 
I  have  gone  to  scouting  for  my  own  command  and 
like  it  much  better  than  when  under  orders,  especial- 
ly as  the  troops  recently  sent  to  Idaho,  know  nothing 
about  Indian  warfare,  and  could  not  tell  a  war  trail 
from  a  beaver  slide.  I  am  now  hunting  a  partner. 
I  can  offer  such  inducements  that  there  is  no  diffi- 
culty in  finding  a  man  who  is  willing  to  become  my 


HOW  CAPTAIN  DOBBINS  WAS  PROMOTED          151 

partner,  but  the  kind  of  man  I  want  is  not  found 
every  day.  For  the  last  ten  days  I  have  been  quietly 
observing  the  manners  and  habits  of  men  about 
Placerville  and  have  found  some  objection  to  all. 
Most  of  them  chew  tobacco,  all  of  them  carry  jack- 
knives  and  three  out  of  every  four  of  them  are  whit- 
tling whenever  they  are  idle." 

I  looked  at  my  strange  companion  in  surprise. 
What  could  he  mean  by  this?  What  earthly  differ- 
ence could  it  make  to  him  whether  a  man  whittled 
or  not  in  his  idle  moments  ?  He  continued : 

"I  don't  want  a  man  who  chews  tobacco,  who  car- 
ries a  jack-knife,  and  who  cannot  walk  with  his 
toes  pointing  straight  ahead." 

I  opened  my  eyes  wide  in  astonishment.  Was  it 
possible  this  handsome  keen  looking  fellow  was  a 
lunatic  ? 

"My  partner,"  he  continued,  "must  be  an  extra- 
ordinary man.  He  must  be  a  crack  shot  with  rifle 
or  pistol;  must  ride  like  a  Comanche  and  throw  a 
rope  like  a  Mexican  Vaquero;  he  must  not  have  a 
habit  of  talking  loud,  hallooing  or  singing;  must 
be  able  to  dive  or  swim  like  a  duck;  to  endure  cold, 
heat,  and  fatigue ;  to  exert  himself  three  or  four  days 
without  food  and  be  able  at  all  times  to  whip  his 
weight  in  wild  cats.  I  knew  the  moment  you 
mounted  that  horse,  you  were  the  very  man  I  was 


152  STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

looking  for.  If  you  will  go  with  me,  we  will  make 
some  money,  and  not  have  any  hard  work  to  do." 

"What  kind  of  busines  do  you  intend  to  engage 
in?"  I  asked. 

"Well,  horse  stealing,"  he  laughed. 

With  some  dignity  I  answered:  "You  have  made 
a  mistake.  I  am  not  a  horse  thief." 

"Hold  on  until  I  explain.  You  know  the  Snake 
Indians  are  on  the  war  trail ;  they  have  been  raiding 
the  border  for  several  years,  and  have  stolen  several 
thousand  head  of  horses.  They  have  never  let  an 
opportunity  slip  to  murder  or  steal.  It  is  no  robbery 
to  re-take  stolen  horses  or  to  capture  ponies  belong- 
ing to  the  Indians,  when  they  are  on  the  war  trail. 
At  the  present  moment,  Uncle  Sam  is  confiscating 
property  belonging  to  the  rebels  whenever  he  can 
lay  hands  on  it.  Captain  Dobbins,  who  is  located 
at  Fort  Boise,  has  worn  his  cavalry  horses  out  rac- 
ing after  the  Snakes  without  taking  a  horse  or 
killing  an  Indian.  The  citizens,  thinking  they  could 
beat  the  regulars,  have  been  out  several  times  with 
no  better  success.  Now  I  can  do  just  what  the  others 
have  failed  to  do.  I  can  capture  those  horses." 

"But  how  do  you  expect  to  do  this  without  any 
army  at  your  back?" 

"I  could  never  get  a  horse  if  an  army  was  any 
where  near  me.  I  propose  to  go  into  the  Indian 


HOW  CAPTAIN  DOBBINS  WAS  PROMOTED          153 

country,  looking  and  acting  just  like  an  Indian,  steal 
all  the  horses  I  can  and  then  rush  for  the  settle- 
ments." 

"I  can  well  understand  how  you  would  rush  for 
the  settlements  if  those  Snake  Indians  were  after 
you,  but  do  not  understand  how  you  are  to  make  a 
white  man  look  like  an  Indian." 

"0!  that's  easy  enough.  I  have  made  two  trips 
and  brought  back  horses  both  times.  I  have  gone 
right  among  them  without  being  detected.  As  for 
you,  with  a  few  strips  of  buckskin,  some  feathers 
and  paint,  I  can  make  as  good  a  looking  young  In- 
dian of  you  as  ever  stepped  in  moccasins.  I  know 
every  man  cannot  do  what  I  can,  no  more  than  every 
man  can  ride  a  horse  or  throw  a  rope  like  you 
do.  I  know  just  what  I  am  about  and  if  you  wnl 
go  with  me,  and  strictly  obey  my  instructions  we 
can  make  a  lot  of  money.  We  will  deliver  the  horses 
we  take  to  the  whites  from  whom  they  were  stolen 
by  the  Indians,  but  we  will  charge  them  a  round  sum 
for  re-taking  them.  I  will  furnish  the  entire  outfit 
and  we  will  divide  all  we  make." 

The  little  farm,  with  all  its  new  improvements, 
spread  itself  before  my  delighted  eyes,  and  I  had 
decided  to  go  before  he  had  ceased  speaking. 

"All  right,"  I  answered,  "when  shall  we  start?" 

"I  will  return  to  Placerville,"  he  answered,  "to 


154          STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

purchase  supplies  and  will  meet  you  on  the  public 
square  tomorrow  at  noon." 

At  the  appointed  time  we  started,  mounted  on 
good  horses,  and  leading  a  third  which  carried  our 
camp  outfit.  My  mount  was  a  splendid  bay,  whose 
natural  beauty  was  enhanced  by  a  silver  mounted 
saddle  and  bridle.  The  cantenas  held  a  pair  of  ivory 
handled  navy  Colt's  pistols  and  a  Henry  rifle  in  a 
leather  case  hung  from  the  pommel  of  the  saddle. 
Once  on  our  way,  we  traveled  along  at  a  swinging 
gait,  taking  the  road  toward  Boisie  City  via  Ban- 
nock. After  traveling  about  twenty  miles,  we  struck 
a  trail  leading  south  toward  Salmon  Falls  on  Snake 
river.  Following  this  trail,  the  second  day  out,  we 
came  to  a  sage  brush  plain.  Here  was  nothing  but 
sage,  sand  and  alkali.  Not  a  living  thing  crossed 
our  path.  We  traveled  for  miles  without  even  seeing 
a  bird.  Toward  evening  we  came  to  the  foothills, 
reaching  down  from  our  left.  Here  was  plenty  of 
grass  and  now  and  then  a  small  pine  tree.  Sud- 
denly a  young  antelope  crossed  our  trail,  going  -it 
full  speed,  though  evidently  fatigued,  for  its  head 
was  bent  low  and  its  tongue  was  protruding  from 
its  mouth.  A  single  glance  was  sufficient  to  show 
that  it  was  being  hotly  pursued  by  something. 

"Get  ready  to  fight,"  said  Bob,  in  a  low,  deter- 
mined voice,  as  he  drew  his  rifle  from  its  scabbard. 

Our  rifles  were  carried  in  such  a  manner  as  to  be 


HOW  CAPTAIN  DOBBINS  WAS  PROMOTED          155 

of  but  little  inconvenience.  A  loop  held  the  breecn 
to  the  pommel  of  the  saddle,  while  the  barrel  lay 
along  the  side  of  the  horse,  the  muzzle  pointing 
downward  near  his  flank.  The  rider's  left  leg  held 
the  gun  securely  against  the  horse's  side  and  it  need 
not  be  touched  with  the  hands  unless  when  it  was  to 
be  drawn  from  the  scabbard. 

As  I  laid  my  hand  on  my  gun  to  obey  Bob's  order, 
I  looked  in  the  direction  from  whence  the  antelope 
came.  At  that  moment  a  large  grey  wolf,  as  large 
as  a  Newfoundland  dog,  bounded  in  sight,  with  his 
long,  strong  muzzle  close  to  the  ground.  He  was 
following  the  antelope  with  the  unerring  instinct  of 
a  trained  hound,  moving  swiftly  in  "that  long,  low 
gallop  which  can  tire  the  hound's  deep  hate,  the 
hunter's  fire." 

"Don't  shoot,  but  try  your  horse  on  that  fellow," 
said  Bob. 

I  had  been  trailing  my  rope  on  the  ground  to 
render  it  more  pliable  and  easy  to  handle.  My  horse 
was  eager  for  the  chase.  I  gave  him  the  rein,  coiling 
my  rope  as  I  went.  It  was  a  splendid  chase.  Before 
the  wolf  had  gone  half  a  mile  I  was  within  a  hun- 
dred feet  of  him,  holding  my  horse  under  tight  rein, 
until  we  came  to  an  open  piece  of  ground  where 
there  was  no  sage  brush  to  interfere,  when  I  slack- 
ened the  rein  and  swung  my  rope.  With  a  noble 


156  STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

burst  of  speed,  my  bay  sprung  forward.  The  wolf 
could  not  respond  and  the  rope  coiled  around  his 
neck  with  a  snap.  He  plunged  like  a  salmon  on  a 
hook,  snapping  his  jaws  viciously.  Knowing  his 
teeth  would  cut  like  a  knife,  I  finished  him  with  a 
shot  from  my  pistol  to  save  my  rope. 

"That  was  well  done,"  said  Bob  when  I  had  over- 
taken him,  "it  is  not  often  one  of  those  fellows  is 
taken  in  that  manner.  How  do  you  like  your  horse?" 

"Splendid.    He  is  worth  a  thousand  dollars." 

"Well,  then  I  make  you  a  present  of  him,  so  you 
are  worth  a  thousand  dollars  more  than  you  were 
when  you  started." 

Passionately  fond  of  a  horse,  I  was  delighted  with 
Bob's  present.  He  was  indeed  one  to  be  proud  of 
and  I  had  been  planning  to  buy  him  ever  since  we 
started. 

"He  is  a  thoroughbred,"  said  Bob,  "has  been 
trained  for  the  track  and  it  is  doubtful  if  anything 
in  Idaho  can  overtake  him.  If  either  of  us  is  out- 
ridden by  the  Snakes,  it  will  not  be  you." 

We  were  nearing  Salmon  Falls  and  could  hear 
the  dreadful  roar  of  the  river  as  it  leaped  from  its 
granite  bed  to  be  dashed  to  pieces  on  the  rocks  sixty 
feet  below.  Here  we  turned  north  and  traveled 
until  midnight,  when  we  camped  in  a  little  valley 
where  the  grass  was  knee  high.  Before  it  was  fairly 


HOW  CAPTAIN  DOBBINS  WAS  PROMOTED          157 

light  I  could  hear  the  splash  of  trout  jumping  in 
the  water.  I  was  soon  dressed  and  after  securing  a 
bit  of  fresh  beef,  which  we  had  brought  with  us,  I 
baited  a  hook,  took  the  first  stick  I  found  for  a  rod, 
and  made  my  way  through  the  tall  grass  until  I 
came  to  a  little  stream,  about  six  feet  wide.  Here 
the  speckled  beauties  were  making  a  breakfast  of 
some  early  insects  which  were  hovering  about  the 
water.  Cautiously  my  hook  was  dropped  below  the 
swarm  of  flies.  I  did  not  wait  for  a  bite.  Never 
did  I  have  such  fishing.  They  fought  for  my  bait 
like  chickens  for  a  pan  of  dough.  In  five  minutes  I 
had  enough  for  breakfast. 

At  this  place,  on  his  last  trip,  Bob  had  left  some 
horses  and  here  we  left  ours.  I  was  afraid  I  would 
never  see  my  beautiful  bay  again,  but  Bob  said  we 
were  much  safer  on  foot,  so  we  cached  our  camp  out- 
fit as  securely  as  we  could,  hanging  our  provisions  in 
the  bushes  out  of  reach  of  wolves,  then  we  prepared 
to  assume  our  disguise.  With  brown  paint  mixed 
with  oil,  we  painted  our  bodies,  rubbing  thoroughly 
from  head  to  heel  until  not  a  vestage  of  white  skin 
remained  in  sight.  Beaded  moccasins  supplanted 
our  boots  and  fringed  buckskin  leggins,  reaching  to 
our  knees,  took  the  place  of  our  pants,  while  a  calico 
shirt,  descending  to  the  waist,  supplied  our  upper 
clothing.  Bob's  hair  was  long,  reaching  to  his 


158          STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

shoulders.  He  had  worn  it  braided  and  fastened 
on  top  of  his  head.  After  he  had  lessened  it,  he 
handed  me  a  wig  made  in  some  ingenious  manner 
out  of  the  hair  from  a  horse's  tail.  It  fitted  me 
nicely,  and  after  a  few  stripes  of  vermillion  paint 
were  added  to  my  face,  Bob  declared  my  costume 
was  complete.  I  had  been  so  occupied  with  my  own 
dressing  that  I  had  not  noticed  Bob's  progress.  As 
he  now  stood  before  me,  I  laughed  so  loud  that  he 
looked  around  with  apprehension  lest  I  should  be 
heard  by  some  foe.  When  he  handed  me  a  small 
mirror  and  my  eyes  were  turned  upon  myself,  I 
roared  with  uncontrolled  laughter.  Talk  of  Dr. 
Jeckel  and  Mr.  Hyde!  They  could  not  hold  a  candle 
to  Bob  and  me.  It  was  really  wonderful  what  a 
change  we  had  made.  We  were  transformed  from 
a  couple  of  good  looking  young  fellows  into  a  couple 
of  Snake  Indians,  and  devilish  ill  looking  Indians  at 
that.  Bob's  transformation  especially  was  complete. 
His  own  mother  could  not  possibly  have  known  him. 
His  handsome  features  had  undergone  a  complete 
re-arrangement  and  their  combined  effect  was  some- 
thing truly  appalling.  When  he  looked  at  me,  I 
involuntarily  reached  for  my  gun  and  could  scarcely 
escape  from  the  impression  that  he  was  about  to 
scalp  me  then  and  there. 

"Now,"  said  he,  raising  his  tomahawk  hand  im- 


HOW  CAPTAIN  DOBBINS  WAS  PROMOTED          159 

pressively,  "there  are  a  thousand  things  you  must 
learn  before  we  are  safe  from  detection.  You  are 
no  longer  a  white  man,  you  are  an  Indian.  You 
look  like  one  and  you  must  act  like  one.  An  Indian 
does  not  walk  with  his  toes  turned  out  but  points 
them  straight  ahead;  he  carries  his  gun  mostly  in 
his  hand,  resting  his  arm  to  his  elbow,  never  on  his 
shoulder;  when  in  motion  he  is  the  very  picture  of 
stealth.  He  may  be  known  from  a  white  man  when 
walking  or  riding  a  mile  distant.  He  neither  walks, 
rides,  eats,  drinks  or  sleeps  like  a  white  man;  and 
when  he  dies,  he  seeks  a  secluded  spot  like  a  dog. 
Inferior  to  us  in  most  respects,  he  nevertheless  has 
his  strong  points.  He  is  the  shrewdest  detective  in 
the  world;  he  will  follow  a  trail  for  days  which  no 
eye  but  his  can  see.  You  cannot  make  a  mark  or 
slight  scratch  on  the  ground,  over  which  he  roams, 
but  he  will  understand  how,  when,  and  for  what 
purpose  it  was  made.  Constant  danger  has  rendered 
him  acute.  His  eye  searches  for  danger  signals  as 
a  hawk  for  prey.  He  suspects  everything  but  noth- 
ing so  much  as  a  white  man.  He  will  glance  over  a 
deserted  camp,  tell  when  the  fire  was  kindled,  when 
it  went  out,  how  many  and  what  kind  of  people 
camped  there  and  how  they  cooked;  where  they 
came  from,  where  going  and  what  was  their  busi- 
ness. He  will  know  how  they  were  mounted,  armed 


160          STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

and  how  much  provisions  they  carried.  Once,  when 
employed  by  the  government,  I  scouted  with  a  Warm 
Spring  Indian.  We  came  to  a  place  near  the  head  of 
the  Malheur  river  where  some  travelers  had  camped. 
I  looked  the  spot  over  and  said,  'Two  Indians  camped 
here  to  cook  their  dinner  yesterday.'  The  Indian 
shook  his  head  and  said,  'Siwash  wake  mitilite  cit- 
cum  sun,' — Indians  don't  stop  at  noon.  Then  he 
pointed  to  where  a  bucket  of  water  had  been  thrown 
on  the  ground.  The  impression  was  plain  to  be 
seen  but  the  water  had  all  sunk  away  and  the  ground 
was  parched  and  dry.  I  corrected  my  remark  by 
saying,  'Yes,  it  was  day  before  yesterday,  but  I 
think  it  was  Indians  camped  here.  See  they  made 
a  little  fire.'  He  rejoined,  'Wake  Siwash,  Uckook 
Boston  man  mitilite  copa  uckook  illehee,' — no  In- 
dians. They  were  white  men  who  camped  here. 
Then  he  stooped  to  pick  up  a  small,  fine-cut  shaving 
which  had  been  cut  from  a  willow  stick,  such  an 
one  as  only  could  have  been  made  with  a  sharp,  fine 
edged  knife,  by  some  one  whittling  carefully.  As  I 
still  looked  incredulous,  he  next  plucked  a  blade  of 
grass  with  a  dark  stain  upon  it  and  held  it  before 
my  eyes  in  triumph.  The  stain  was  made  by  tobacco 
juice.  I  yielded.  Indians  never  carry  pocket  knives 
or  keep  a  smooth  edge  on  their  butcher  knives ;  they 
never  chew  tobacco  and  are  seldom  seen  to  whittle 


HOW  CAPTAIN  DOBBINS  WAS  PROMOTED          161 

with  any  kind  of  a  knife.  I  told  the  scout  he  was 
correct.  They  were  probably  a  couple  of  prospectors. 
He  went  to  a  large  rock,  a  few  feet  from  the  camp 
and  called  my  attention  to  impressions  made  in  the 
dust  by  the  butts  of  two  guns,  such  guns  as  are 
used  in  the  army,  not  such  rifles  as  prospectors 
carry.  I  was  beaten  again  but  when  the  scout  said, 
'Uckook  mysika  tilicum,  clatawa  nanitch  Siwash. 
Lacket  sun  nanitch  copa  Salmon  Falls,' — They  are 
scouts,  our  friends.  In  four  days  we  will  see  them 
at  Salmon  Falls.  I  was  completely  nonplused  but 
concluded  to  say  nothing  but  wait  for  developments. 
On  the  fourth  day  we  camped  at  Salmon  Falls  and 
had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  two  of  Uncle  Sam's 
scouts  who  verified  the  Indian's  predictions  in  every 
particular.  I  tell  you  all  this,"  continued  Bob,  "that 
you  may  know  something  of  the  kind  of  people  we 
have  come  to  deceive.  But  I  have  learned  many 
things  since  I  made  that  trip  and  feel  certain  we  will 
win.  It  will  take  you  years  to  learn  all  these  things. 
The  best  plan  is  for  you  to  follow  me  and  act  as 
near  like  I  do  as  you  can.  We  are  going  directly 
into  the  Snake  country.  I  speak  the  language  of 
every  red  scamp  between  here  and  the  Missouri 
river.  If  we  meet  any  one,  white  or  red,  let  me  do 
the  talking." 

Our  cartridges  and  provisions  were  in  small  buck- 


162          STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

skin  pouches  swung  under  our  left  arms.  Neatly 
coiled  in  the  bottom  of  these  pounches  lay  our  rietas. 
Lastly,  throwing  our  blankets  across  our  shoulders 
and  taking  our  rifles  in  hand,  we  started.  Bob  talked 
but  little.  He  stalked  along  with  a  dignified  silence 
and  stoical  demeanor  which  would  have  delighted 
the  renowned  chief,  Big  Thunder  himself.  He 
seemed  to  scorn  the  earth  and  all  upon  it,  not  deign- 
ing to  notice  me  except  on  rare  occasions.  I  verily 
believe  he  was  trying  to  imagine  he  was  an  Indian 
in  order  to  more  readily  pass  for  one  in  case  occasion 
required  it.  His  whole  demeanor  was  changed  with 
his  color. 

This  conduct  annoyed  me  not  a  little.  I  could  see 
no  necessity  for  all  those  Indian  airs  while  we  were 
alone  in  the  mountains  and  supposed  at  the  time 
they  were  intended  to  impress  me  with  his  import- 
ance as  a  scout.  I  came  to  know  later  Bob  was  a 
natural  actor,  if  ever  one  was  born,  and  always 
when  playing  a  role,  played  it  to  perfection.  He 
walked  along,  perfectly  at  his  ease;  his  straps, 
strings,  moccasins  and  paint  fitting  him  to  perfec- 
tion. As  for  myself,  I  was  very  uncomfortable.  I 
had  great  difficulty  in  keeping  my  pieces  of  buckskin 
in  place.  Some  string  was  constantly  coming  un- 
done, then  I  would  kneel  or  sit  down  on  the  ground 
and  wrestle  with  them  in  a  manner  which  must 


HOW  CAPTAIN  DOBBINS  WAS  PROMOTED          163 

have  resembled  a  squaw  digging  kous  or  picking 
strawberries  rather  than  a  warrior  adjusting  his 
apparel.  In  spite  of  my  annoyance  I  was  forced 
to  laugh  many  times  at  the  utter  ridiculousness  of 
the  whole  proceeding.  Bob's  actions  continued  to 
remind  me  so  forcibly  of  a  bloodthirsty  Indian  that 
I  sometimes  fancied  he  might  be  at  any  rate  a  half 
breed,  bent  on  some  kind  of  mischief  towards  me. 
I  knew  this  was  a  foolish  thought  and  tried  to  banish 
it,  yet  it  would  stay  uppermost  in  my  mind,  some- 
times varying  its  horror  by  whispering  I  was  alone 
in  the  mountains  with  an  armed  lunatic.  On  the 
second  day  from  camp,  Bob  asked  me  if  I  could  not 
walk  with  my  toes  turned  in  a  little  more.  This  I 
endeavored  to  do  but  it  became  very  tiresome  and 
gave  me  pain  in  the  knees.  Once,  when  we  were 
going  down  a  hill  covered  with  grass,  so  we  made 
no  tracks,  I  threw  my  toes  out  nearly  at  right  angles 
to  the  course  I  was  going  and  walked  along  to  get 
a  rest.  This  was  too  much  for  my  Indian,  and  he 
laughed  for  the  first  time  in  two  days.  After  this 
I  was  more  resigned  to  his  company  and  went  for- 
ward more  cheerfully. 

After  four  days  travel,  we  were,  about  one  hun- 
dred miles  above  Salmon  Falls,  well  into  the  Snake 
country  but  none  had  been  seen.  Bob  became  more 
cautious  every  hour.  He  had  a  good  field  glass  with 


164  STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

which  he  scanned  the  surrounding  country  for  dust, 
smoke  or  other  signs  of  the  savages.  Our  camps 
were  model  Indian  camps  in  every  particular;  the 
fire  was  small  and  built  of  sticks  broken  short  and 
set  on  end ;  no  scraps  of  food  was  left  scattered  about 
except  some  small  pieces  of  dried  venison,  salmon 
and  kous,  which  were  brought  along  for  that  pur- 
pose. On  starting  in  the  morning,  a  feather  from 
Bob's  head  dress  would  fall  near  the  fire  where  his 
moccasin  tracks  were  plain  to  be  seen.  Had  an 
Indian  passed  that  way,  he  would  have  seen  where 
a  couple  of  his  brethren  had  camped  and  nothing 
more.  Had  we  left  a  biscuit,  a  piece  of  bacon,  cigar 
ette,  quid  of  tobacco,  tooth  pick,  or  anything  to 
excite  his  suspicion,  the  alarm  would  have  been 
given  and  we  have  been  hunted  to  death  or  back 
to  the  settlements. 

Deer  and  antelope  were  now  plenty.  We  could 
have  enjoyed  a  hunter's  paradise  with  our  repeating 
guns  had  we  dared  to  use  them  for  such  game.  One 
day  a  deer  ran  past  but  a  short  distance  ahead  of  us. 
Bob  dropped  in  the  grass  and  lay  snug  as  a  quail.  I 
had  learned  to  follow  suit  and  dropped  also  without 
knowing  what  it  meant.  A  moment  later,  four  In- 
dians came  following  along  the  trail  of  the  deer. 
After  they  had  passed,  and  we  were  secreted  in  the 


HOW  CAPTAIN  DOBBINS  WAS  PROMOTED          165 

timber  near  by,  I  asked  Bob  how  he  knew  the  Snakes 
were  coming. 

"Because  that  deer  was  wounded  and  Indians  al- 
ways follow  their  game  closely  after  it  is  crippled. 
That  deer  was  badly  wounded  and  cannot  go  but 
a  short  distance.  It  will  stop  and  turn  at  bay  when 
it  reaches  that  little  stream  over  there.  We  will  wait 
here  until  we  see  what  happens  next." 

In  a  few  moments  we  heard  a  single  shot. 

"They  have  got  it,"  said  Bob. 

"Maybe  they  missed  it,"  I  answered. 

"If  the  first  shot  had  not  killed  it  there  would 
have  been  more  shooting  done,"  he  replied. 

In  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  we  saw  the  In- 
dians coming  back  apparently  in  great  glee,  but 
without  the  deer.  I  looked  at  Bob  in  confirmation 
of  my  suggestion  that  it  had  escaped.  He  quietly 
remarked : 

"We  are  near  an  Indian  camp.  They  are  return- 
ing and  will  send  their  squaws  for  the  game.  They 
hunt  in  large  parties  in  this  section  and  at  this 
time  of  the  year,  and  their  camp  has  just  been 
pitched.  Game  is  too  plentiful  and  tame  to  have 
been  hunted  much  lately.  We  are  not  far  from  their 
camp  or  these  lazy  fellows  would  have  been  on  their 
ponies.  I  think  they  have  just  arrived  and  these 
hunters  came  out  a  short  distance  to  look  for  signs 


166  STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

of  game.  They  will  now  go  direct  to  camp  and  we 
win  soon  know  how  far  it  is  to  it." 

We  lay  closely  concealed  for  about  an  hour,  when 
there  appeared  coming  across  the  crest  of  the  hill, 
walking  briskly  in  single  file,  about  a  dozen  squaws. 
They  went  directly  towards  the  place  where  the  shot 
had  been  fired,  evidently  going,  as  Bob  had  pre- 
dicted, after  the  deer.  When  they  had  passed  out  of 
sight,  Bob  said,  "That  tells  the  story.  The  camp,  or 
very  likely  it  is  a  large  village,  is  about  two  miles 
from  here  just  beyond  that  bald  hill  you  see  yonder. 
Now,  Dave,  you  have  never  been  in  as  close  a  place 
in  your  life  as  you  are  right  now;  but  you  may 
be  in  a  much  closer  one  before  morning.  I  noticed 
you  did  not  change  color  when  those  bucks  passed 
so  close  by  us,  and  I  am  better  satisfied  with  you 
than  ever.  There  are  many  brave  men  but  very 
few  effective  men  in  a  fight.  I  mean  that  there  are 
many  men  who  will  stand  their  ground  and  die  be- 
fore making  a  disgraceful  retreat,  but  only  a  few 
who  can  become  a  terror  to  their  enemies.  But  you 
are  all  right.  You  can  run  like  a  wolf  or  fight  like 
a  devil,  whichever  may  be  required." 

After  awhile  the  squaws  came  toiling  along  back, 
each  carrying  on  her  back  a  portion  of  the  venison. 
They  did  not  appear  to  be  as  merry  as  the  hunters 
had  been.  Poor  women !  Savage  customs  fall  heavi- 


HOW  CAPTAIN  DOBBINS  WAS  PROMOTED          167 

est  on  those  least  able  to  bear  them.  They  per- 
formed the  drudgery,  while  their  lords  enjoyed  what 
sport  could  be  found  in  their  mode  of  existence. 
When  the  coast  was  clear  again,  we  left  our  hiding 
place  and  started  to  find  the  camp. 


(By  courtesy  of  O.  R.  &  N.) 
ROOSTER  ROCK  ON  THE   COLUMBIA  RIVER 


How  Captain  Dobbins  Was  Promoted. 


VIII. 

We  traveled  along  within  the  timber  line  until  we 
reached  a  high  point  overlooking  a  large  basin  in 
the  hills.  Cautiously  peeping  over  a  ledge  of  rocks, 
a  large  Indian  village  was  in  full  view,  about  a  mile 
below.  We  counted  forty-three  lodges.  Our  glass 
enabled  us  to  get  a  good  view.  Evidently  the  lodges 
had  just  been  put  up,  as  the  grass  was  still  standing 
about  the  doors  and  the  children  were  frolicking 
about  with  that  childish  curiosity  which  indicated 
they  were  not  among  familiar  objects.  The  horses 
were  feeding  briskly  away  from  where  they  had  just 
been  turned  loose.  The  young  girls  were  wandering 
about  the  camp  with  all  the  aimlessness  of  youth, 
while  some  of  the  elder  women  hacked  away  the 
brush  from  the  willow  fringed  stream  that  they 
might  reach  the  water.  The  men  were  evidently  pre- 
paring for  a  grand  hunt,  as  they  were  seen  with 
bows  and  arrows  and  guns  in  hand,  passing  from 
lodge  to  lodge.  It  was  a  beautiful  sight.  The  whole 


170          STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

picture  is  stamped  upon  the  retina  of  my  mind  to- 
day. I  can  call  it  up  at  will ;  even  now  I  am  seated 
again  in  the  rocks  and  drinking  in  the  wild,  ravish- 
ing beauty  of  the  scene. 

The  encampment  is  near  the  center  of  the  valley, 
which  is  circular  in  form,  resembling  a  huge  basin 
whose  well  defined  rim  touches  and  rests  against 
the  darker  green  of  the  pine-clad  hills.  Wild  flowers 
and  yellow  sage  mingle  with  the  green  grass  and 
give  the  basin  a  rich  tan  color.  The  hills  overlap, 
concealing  from  view  the  entrance  and  exit  of  the 
willow  fringed  stream,  which  is  thrown  carelessly 
with  many  windings  and  doublings  like  a  green 
thread  across  the  basin. 

The  Indian  women  have  lighted  the  fires  and  each 
wigwam  is  rolling  from  its  summit  heavy  folds  of 
blue  smoke,  causing  me  to  imagine  an  impossible 
group  of  miniature  volcanic  pyramids  from  which 
the  fire  is  just  ready  to  burst.  The  immense  herd 
of  horses  just  freed  from  the  day's  journey,  ar.> 
moving  leisurely  toward  the  western  edge  of  the 
basin,  industriously  cropping  the  grass  which  grows 
in  wild  profusion  among  the  sage. 

I  can  see  the  dark  warriors,  with  bare  limbs  and 
shoulders,  standing  or  moving  about  the  lodges  and 
the  little  wolf  like  dogs,  the  children,  the  young  men 
and  maidens.  One  among  the  latter  catches  my  eye 


HOW  CAPTAIN  DOBBINS  WAS  PROMOTED          171 

and  the  glass  is  leveled  long  where  she  stands.  It 
is  apart  from  the  village,  down  the  stream  which 
seems  to  have  carelessly  doubled  about  to  throw  a 
fold  of  tall  willows  to  conceal  her  from  prying  eyes. 
She  is  young,  lithe  and  apparently  slight  built  for 
one  of  her  race.  The  top  of  her  shoulders,  her  neck 
and  arms  are  bare.  Some  kind  of  beads  encircle 
her  wrists  and  neck;  her  long,  black  hair,  uncaught 
by  braid  or  band,  thrown  backward  reaches  to  her 
waist,  and  her  face,  when  she  turns  toward  me,  by 
its  tinge  here  and  there  of  vermillion,  tells  me  she 
has  carefully  made  her  toilette  although  lately  ar- 
rived from  a  dusty  journey,  and  I  believe  she  has 
deliberately  laid  her  plans  to  ensnare  a  young  brave, 
one  just  a  little  braver  than  all  the  rest.  He  is  stand- 
ing by  her  side  and  I  verily  believe  is  fully  aware 
she  has  wandered  away  from  the  rest  that  he  might 
follow;  that  her  lips  and  cheeks  were  painted  for 
his  especial  notice  and  that  all  the  fond  endearments 
which  she  is  lavishing  upon  a  little  spotted  colt, 
which  stands  quietly  for  her  caresses,  are  intended 
for  him.  He  waits  patiently  while  her  arms  are 
about  the  neck  of  her  little  pet;  then  as  its  dam 
walks  away  and  it  breaks  loose  to  follow,  he  twirls 
a  finger  in  a  lock  of  the  raven  hair  of  his  pet,  and 
playfully  they  wander  on  together. 

All  this  is  in  my  picture,  seen  distinctly,  while  two 


172          STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

snow-clad  peaks  on  the  north  and  west  look  down 
to  reflect  the  rays  of  the  setting  sun  and  hold  in 
check  the  gathering  twilight,  relighting  the  whole 
basin  and  bringing  out  in  clear  outline  and  almost 
startling  distinctness,  the  whole  scene  below. 

Of  all  the  pictures  memory  has  preserved  of  that 
eventful  raid  this  one  has  been  the  least  touched 
by  time  and  is  the  most  tenderly  cherished. 

Of  all  the  habitations  of  man,  that  of  the  Indian 
is  to  my  mind,  the  most  picturesque.  But  to  us  the 
grandest  sight  was  the  horses.  They  covered  the 
entire  western  half  of  the  basin.  For  hours  we  lay 
and  watched  the  village.  Our  glass  was  of  service 
to  us  in  enabling  us  to  see  without  being  seen  and 
to  know  without  being  known;  besides,  it  gave  us 
much  food  for  after-thought,  if  rightly  understood. 
How  much  of  the  story  of  life  came  crowding 
through  the  lenses  of  that  glass  as  we  lay  among 
the  rocks  and  watched  that  Indian  village! 

"We  have  a  streak  of  luck,"  said  Bob,  "and  are 
going  to  have  things  all  our  way.  By  dark  those 
horses  will  be  over  that  hill,  two  miles  from  the  vil- 
lage and  very  likely  without  a  single  herder." 

We  lay  quietly  until  dark  and  then  started  to  skirt 
around  the  encampment  to  where  the  horses  were 
last  seen.  We  walked  swiftly  and  silently  along,  our 
moccasined  feet  falling  without  a  sound  upon  the 


HOW  CAPTAIN  DOBBINS  WAS  PROMOTED          173 

thick 'carpet  of  grass  which  covered  the  hills.  In 
about  an  hour  we  came  up  with  the  hindmost  horses, 
which  were  feeding  rapidly  away  from  the  village. 
After  we  had  followed  on  foot  a  couple  of  miles, 
Bob  said,  "Let  us  mount  and  drive  a  little  faster." 
The  hindmost  horses  were  easily  approached.  We 
noosed  a  couple,  and  mounting,  brought  in  the  strag- 
glers, crowding  the  herd  closer  together  without  a 
sound  louder  than  a  low  hist.  We  had  the  whole 
band  in  motion,  going  at  a  full  trot.  Luckily  there 
was  a  good  trail.  Many  of  the  horses  had  been 
stolen  from  the  Boise  country  and  some  of  them  were 
leading  out  briskly  for  home. 

We  changed  our  riding  horses  frequently,  trying 
to  get  the  best  ones  within  reach  of  our  ropes,  and  in- 
creased our  speed  until  midnight  when  the  whole 
herd  was  going  at  full  run.  We  had  dropped  out 
most  of  the  mares  and  colts,  knowing  they  would 
follow  along  and  cover  up  the  tracks  of  the  horses. 
We  rode  back  and  forwards  in  driving,  thereby  de- 
stroying the  evidence  that  the  band  was  being 
driven.  By  this  maneuver,  we  hoped  to  deceive  any 
Indians  who  might  follow,  into  the  belief  that  their 
stock  was  taking  a  journey  of  their  own  accord,  in 
which  case  they  might  follow  to  overtake  them  with- 
out alarming  the  village. 

We  were  driving  over  light  alkali  soil.     Clouds 


174          STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

of  white  dust  arose,  floating  off  to  the  south  and 
showed  in  the  clear  moonlight  like  billows  of  moving 
snow.  On  we  thundered.  A  thousand  horses  and 
but  two  to  ride.  The  air  was  cool  and  bracing,  the 
moon  was  at  the  full.  We  had  no  thought  of  weari- 
ness, danger  and  hope  carried  us  beyond  fatigue. 
There  was  danger  behind,  there  was  hope  ahead, 
but  not  one  drop  of  our  blood  but  was  doing  active 
duty  in  sustaining  our  spirits,  which  had  now  risen 
to  the  highest  pitch.  It  was  a  glorious  ride.  Back 
and  forth  we  darted  with  the  fury  of  devils,  uttering 
vehement  hisses  and  lashing  the  hindmost  horses 
with  our  ropes.  Throughout  the  night  we  galloped 
and  ran.  When  daylight  began  to  dawn  we  were  in 
sight  of  Snake  river,  ten  miles  from  Salmon  Falls. 

Looking  back  we  saw  a  dust  about  a  mile  back 
which  told  us  we  were  about  to  be  overtaken.  At 
last  Bob  stopped  to  see  what  was  coming.  I  heard 
him  fire  two  shots.  He  soon  overtook  me  and  said, 
"It  was  only  a  couple  of  boys  and  they  were  not 
armed.  I  could  not  bear  to  hurt  them,  but  shot  their 
horses.  You  should  have  seen  the  rascals  run ;  they 
dived  into  the  sage  brush  like  a  couple  of  rabbits. 
When  the  others  come  on,  those  boys  and  their  dead 
horses  will  tell  a  big  tale.  They  did  not  see  me  and 
will  think  there  was  a  dozen  of  me." 

After  a  while  six  or  eight  Indians  came  in  sight 


HOW  CAPTAIN  DOBBINS  WAS  PROMOTED          175 

and  Bob  stopped  again.  He  fired  several  shots  in 
rapid  succession. 

"They  ran  at  the  first  fire,"  said  Bob.  "I  don't 
think  I  killed  an  Indian,  but  I  crippled  two  or  three 
horses.  They  will  rally  around  awhile  to  work  up 
their  courage  before  they  come  on.  An  Indian  can- 
not fight  in  a  cold  collar  no  more  than  a  balky  horse 
will  work  in  one." 

I  proposed  to  stop  back  the  next  time,  but  Bob 
said  he  was  afraid  the  Snakes  would  play  some 
trick  upon  me,  besides,  he  added,  "you  will  have 
plenty  of  fighting  before  the  sun  is  an  hour  high. 
There  are  more  coming  and  they  will  fight  when 
they  get  warmed  up  to  it.  Yonder  they  come  now. 
Every  cussed  old  mare  we  let  go  is  tearing  along  our 
trail  with  a  Snake  on  her  back.  Let  us  both  stop  and 
give  them  a  dose." 

We  tied  our  horses  out  of  range  and  concealing 
ourselves  behind  some  rocks,  waited. 

"Now,"  said  Bob,  "draw  your  breath  'slow  and 
deep  and  raise  your  sights  for  300  yards.  When 
they  come  over  that  hill,  let  them  have  it.  Fire  as 
fast  as  you  can.  I  don't  care  about  killing  many  of 
them,  but  want  to  make  them  think  there  are 
twenty-five  or  thirty  of  us.  We  came  after  horses, 
not  Indians." 

As  soon  as  they  came  in  sight  we  commenced 


176          STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

firing.  I  don't  think  I  ever  heard  such  rapid  firing 
from  two  guns.  The  Snakes  knew  nothing  about 
repeating  guns  at  that  time  and  might  easily  have 
imagined  a  small  army  was  shooting  at  them.  At 
any  rate,  they  took  the  back  track  in  a  hurry.  Again 
we  crowded  our  horses  forward. 

"If  we  can  only  reach  the  Falls,"  said  Bob,  "there 
is  a  place  there  where  we  can  whip  the  whole  Snake 
nation.  The  old  mare  brigade  is  coming  on  pretty 
lively,  but  we  must  not  give  up  our  horses  while 
we  have  a  cartridge  left.  Now,  let's  drive  like  h — 1 
for  the  Falls." 

The  Indians  came  in  sight  again,  but  a  single 
shot  turned  them  back  and  we  rushed  on.  Darting 
against  the  herd,  we  shouted,  waved  our  blankets 
and  fired  our  guns  to  frighten  the  horses  to  re- 
newed speed  and  they  thundered  down  the  long 
slope  to  the  Falls,  the  noise  of  their  hoofs  drowning 
the  roar  of  the  water. 

"Here,"  said  Bob,  "we  will  whip  the  mare  brigade 
or  immortalize  this  place  by  making  of  it  a  new 
Thermopyle." 

As  we  took  our  places  behind  a  ledge  of  rock  to 
await  the  savages,  I  could  but  smile  at  the  incon- 
gruity of  Bob's  appearance  and  his  knowledge  of 
Greek  history.  This  time  it  was  no  trifling  matter. 


HOW  CAPTAIN  DOBBINS  WAS  PROMOTED          177 

There  were  not  less  than  fifty  Indians  and  they  were 
approaching  with  great  caution. 

"No  foolishness  now,"  said  Bob.  "Kill  an  Indian 
every  shot." 

They  came  within  a  hundred  yards  before  we 
opened  fire.  They  attempted  a  charge,  but  as  sev- 
eral fell,  they  ran.  Again,  they  rallied,  but  in  con- 
fusion received  our  fire  until  they  broke  again.  All 
but  one  brave  fellow,  who  charged  directly  upon 
us,  yelling  like  a  demon,  and  swaying  his  body  so 
rapidly  from  side  to  side,  that  we  missed  him  sev- 
eral times.  With  those  two  Henrys  blazing  at  him, 
he  came  within  fifty  feet  of  us  before  horse  and 
rider  fell.  I  took  this  opportunity  to  secure  a  sad- 
dle, which,  although  of  Indian  make,  was  better  than 
no  saddle.  While  I  was  adjusting  it  to  my  horse, 
the  blast  of  a  bugle  came  clear  and  sharp,  and  look- 
ing, we  saw  a  body  of  United  States  troops  charg- 
ing down  upon  us. 

"Stand  perfectly  still  and  point  the  muzzle  of  your 
gun  down,"  said  Bob. 

"We  are  white  men,"  shouted  he,  as  the  troops 
closed  around  us. 

"Throw  down  your  gun,  you  red  skunk,"  yelled 
the  captain,  "or  you  are  a  dead  Indian."  We  did 
not  obey  this  order. 

Bob  said :    "If  you  are  hunting  Indians,  they  are 


178          STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

there,"  pointing  to  some  yet  in  sight  beyond  our 
battlefield.  Leaving  a  guard  with  us,  the  troops 
charged  back  to  where  the  Indians  were  seen.  After 
a  fruitless  chase,  they  returned. 

"You  say  you  are  a  white  man,"  demanded  the 
captain,  riding  up  to  Bob. 

"\es,  sir;  as  white  as  you  are." 

"Then  you  are  the  most  devilish  looking  white 
man  I  ever  saw.  How  came  you  with  those  blood- 
thirsty Snakes?" 

"We  were  bringing  in  our  horses  when  the  Snakes 
attacked  us.  That  they  were  no  friends  of  ours, 
you  may  know  from  the  dead  Indians  lying  along 
our  trail." 

"You  don't  pretend  to  say  all  these  horses  are 
yours,  do  you?" 

"Yes,  sir.  Every  one  of  them.  We  have  had 
them  out  in  the  hills  where  the  grass  is  good  and 
were  bringing  them  in  when  these  cussed  Indians 
tried  to  tane  them  away  from  us.  By  the  way,  I 
am  glad  you  came  along,  Captain,  and  shall  be 
obliged  to  call  on  you  for  protection  until  we  reach 
the  settlements." 

The  captain  laughed,  but  said :  "All  right.  I  will 
help  take  the  stock  in.  Are  you  a  white  man,  too?" 
he  said,  approaching  me. 

I  was  standing  stock  still,  where  I  had  remained 


HOW  CAPTAIN  DOBBINS  WAS  PROMOTED          179 

since  the  troops  first  charged  upon  us.  I  had  been 
stricken  dumb  with  astonishment,  but  the  muzzle  of 
my  gun  was  thrust  into  the  ground,  as  Bob  had  di- 
rected, and  I  had  taken  the  precaution  to  remove  my 
wig,  and  was  holding  the  ugly  thing  in  my  hand. 
My  position  was  very  humiliating.  The  thought  had 
crossed  my  mind  that  my  brown  curly  hair,  which 
rose  in  triumph  above  my  paint  and  grease,  was  the 
only  thing  that  would  save  me  from  an  ignominious 
death  at  the  hands  of  my  own  countrymen.  I  an- 
swered, "Yes,  sir.  I  am  a  miner,  and  shall  join  my 
partner  in  begging  your  protection  untn  we  reach 
Boise  City." 

He  laughed  and  said:  "All  right.  I  will  protect 
you  from  the  Indians,  but  you  must  take  your 
chances  with  Jncle  Sam.  Your  stock  is  worn  out. 
\*e  will  camp  here." 

This  was  done  in  true  military  fashion.  Guards 
were  placed  around  the  camp  and  stock,  and  Bob  and 
I,  laying  down  upon  our  blankets,  were  soon  fast 
asleep.  The  captain,  and  part  of  his  command,  went 
back  to  our  battle  ground.  They  found  eight  dead 
Indians  and  twelve  horses.  After  resting  a  few 
hours,  Bob  secured  an  escort  and  went  after  our 
camp  fixtures  and  horses,  left  as  we  went.  They 
returned  at  dark.  I  was  pleased  to  recover  my 
handsome  bay,  but  I  don't  think  I  was  ever  so  much 


180          STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

relieved  in  my  life  as,  when  after  a  thorough  scrub- 
bing, I  was  arrayed  in  my  own  clothes  and  was  able 
again  to  look  like  a  white  man.  I  could  not  under- 
stand why  Bob  still  retained  his  disguise,  but  as  he 
generally  had  good  reasons  for  what  he  did,  I  asked 
no  questions.  We  were  treated  with  great  respect 
by  the  soldiers,  who  seemed  to  have  a  high  opinion 
of  our  fighting  qualities.  When  we  arrived  at  Boise 
the  stock  was  turned  on  the  hills  east  of  the  fort. 

The  captain  said:  "I  must  leave  a  guard  with 
these  horses.  It  is  evident  you  have  taken  them 
from  the  Indians.  Uncle  Sam  does  not  allow  citi- 
zens to  keep  or  dispose  of  stock  taken  in  that  way." 

"All  right,"  said  Bob.  "I  will  go  with  you  to 
your  quarters,  as  I  want  to  talk  with  you  a  little 
before  this  matter  is  finally  settled." 

When  they  reached  the  captain's  quarters,  Bob 
said:  "Do  you  know  Bob  Fizthugh?" 

"I  know  him  well.  A  braver  or  better  man  does 
not  live." 

"Would  you  do  him  a  favor  if  you  could?" 

"I  would  risk  my  life  for  him.  He  saved  mine 
once  at  the  risk  of  his  own." 

"Well,  I  am  Bob  Fitzhugh.  Let  me  have  some 
soap  and  water  and  you  shall  know  me." 

The  captain  could  not  believe  him,  but  stood 
looking  on  until  he  emerged  from  the  wash  bowl, 


HOW  CAPTAIN  DOBBINS  WAS  PROMOTED          181 

and  extending  his  hand  said:  "How  are  you,  Cap- 
tain Dobbins.  It  is  strange  you  did  not  know  me, 
paint  or  no  paint." 

"Know  you!"  said  Dobbins.  "I  would  defy  the 
devil  to  have  known  you  had  you  been  his  own  imp 
after  you  were  painted  and  fixed  up  in  that  style. 
I  watched  you  closely  as  we  came  along  and  thought 
you  had  the  most  frightful  appearance  of  any  hu- 
man being  I  ever  looked  at.  I  was  of  the  opinion 
you  might  secure  the  chieftainship  of  the  Snake  na- 
tion on  your  general  appearance.  But  I  am  awful 
glad  to  see  you,  Bob,  and  now  what  do  you  want?" 

"Well,  you  see,  Mr.  Snell  and  I  have  had  some 
hard  work  and  taken  a  good  many  chances  in  get- 
ting those  horses.  Most  of  them  belong  to  the  whites, 
who  will  claim  them.  If  the  government  returns 
them  we  will  get  nothing  for  our  trouble.  Now, 
there  is  very  little  pleasure  in  riding  a  hundred 
miles,  bareback,  over  a  rough  trail,  with  a  band 
of  hostile  Indians  yelling  and  shouting  behind,  to 
say  nothing  about  the  danger  of  being  hit  by  a  bul- 
let. You  must  admit  we  have  been  rather  success- 
ful and  struck  the  hostiles  a  hard  blow.  All  the 
fighting  done  for  the  last  five  years  has  not  crippled 
them  as  much  as  Dave  and  I  did  in  that  night's  ride 
and  morning's  fight.  They  laugh  at  the  efforts  of 
a  body  of  men  following  them  to  retake  stock  which 


182          STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

they  have  stolen.  They  only  drive  it  further  into 
the  hills.  But  it  is  a  very  different  thing  when  I 
go  after  them  and  employ  their  own  tactics.  Now, 
Captain,  I  don't  care  so  much  about  myself  as  I  do 
for  that  boy  whom  I  persuaded  to  go  with  me.  He 
is  good  stuff  and  I  like  him.  I  promised  to  make 
some  money  for  him  and  I've  got  to  do  it  some  way. 
I  know  the  regulations  the  government  had  made 
about  captured  stock  and  know  you  will  take  somo 
little  chances  of  getting  into  trouble  by  doing  what 
I  want  you  to,  but  a  man  ain't  much  account  in 
this  world  unless  he  will  take  some  chances  for 
a  friend.  I  want  you  to  give  notice  that  a  number  of 
horses  have  been  taken  which  the  owners  can  have 
by  paying  for  bringing  in  and  herding.  Proof  of 
ownership  can  be  made  to  me  without  putting  the 
government  to  any  trouble.  You  can  take  credit 
for  killing  those  Snakes.  We  will  make  a  report 
of  the  affair,  which  will  help  you  along  in  the  line 
of  promotion,  and  do  no  one  any  harm.  As  far  as 
the  honor  attending  that  raid  is  concerned,  I  as- 
sure you,  Snell  and  I  care  nothing  about  it." 

For  a  moment  the  captain  was  silent.  Then  he 
said:  "The  law  is  against  your  request,  but  the 
equities  are  all  with  you.  Besides,  I  do  not  forget 
that  you  are  the  man  who  swam  to  the  middle  of 
the  Snake  river  to  save  my  life  when  I  was  drown- 


HOW  CAPTAIN  DOBBINS  WAS  PROMOTED          183 

ing  and  that  you  did  it  while  others  were  paralyzed 
with  fright  and  unable  to  assist  me.  Go  ahead,  Bob. 
I  will  take  all  chances.  I  only  wish  they  were  equal 
to  those  you  took  for  me." 

When  Bob  returned  we  were  in  undisputed  pos- 
session. We  counted  our  band  and  found  we  had 
755  horses.  In  a  few  days  the  settlers  began  to 
come  to  prove  and  take  their  property.  We  charged 
$10  a  head  and  had  no  trouble  collecting  our  fee,  as 
the  horses  were  worth  from  $75  to  $150  each,  and 
there  were  plenty  of  owners  for  them,  especially 
when  it  became  known  we  were  not  particular  about 
proof.  A  good,  strong  claim,  accompanied  by  the 
fee,  was  considered  sufficient  evidence  of  ownership. 
Even  the  spotted  ponies,  which  had  probably  never 
seen  a  white  man  before,  found  some  one  to  claim 
them.  In  fact,  any  one  who  had  $10  and  wanted 
a  horse,  did  not  hesitate  to  lay  claim  to  one  of  our 
band.  We  were  liberal,  too,  and  often  threw  in  a 
small  horse,  when  any  one  had  proven  a  number  of 
them.  They  went  off  so  rapidly  that  we  raised  the 
reclamation  fee  to  $20  and  still  found  owners.  A 
mining  excitement  springing  up  aided  materially  in 
closing  out  the  remnant  of  the  band. 

One  day  Captain  Dobbins  called  upon  us,  saying 
he  wanted  to  confer  with  us  about  the  affair  at  Sal- 
mon Falls. 

"Of  course,"  he  said,  "my  report  to  the  depart- 


184          STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

ment  has  been  forwarded,  but  you  know  the  news- 
papers expect  something  a  little  more  detailed  and 
graphic  than  a  dry  military  report,  so  I  thought  we 
might  give  them  something  not  uncomplimentary  to 
the  actors  in  the  skirmish.  How  many  Indians  do 
you  thinK  we  killed?" 

"About  forty,"  said  Bob.  "There  were  twenty 
two  found  dead  and  many  were  carried  away  by 
their  friends." 

"How  many  were  engaged?" 

"Over  five  hundred." 

"Were  any  chief  skilled?" 

"Yes.    Old  Crazy  Horse  was  killed." 

"How  did  you  recognize  him?" 

"By  his  horse.  He  always  rides  a  spotted  horse. 
By  his  dress,  and  by  the  way  he  fought." 

"Why,  I  thought  he  was  a  Sioux  chief?" 

"Oh !  that's  another  one.  In  fact,  every  tribe  has 
a  chief  or  medicine  man  of  that  name.  It  is  a  kind 
of  title  of  nobility  among  them,  like  the  name  of 
Douglass  among  the  Scots.  They  are  all  desperate 
fighters.  There  will  be  but  little  trouble  with  the 
Snakes  after  this." 

"How  many  horses  did  we  take?" 

"About  two  hundred  head." 

"My  command  fought  well,  I  thought." 

"Yes.    It  fought  most  desperately." 


HOW  CAPTAIN  DOBBINS  WAS  PROMOTED          185 

"I  believe  the  engagement  commenced  near  the 
Falls,  did  it  not  7" 

"Yes.  The  dreadful  roar  of  the  waters  at  times 
drowned  the  frightful  din  of  the  carnage." 

"Say,  Fitzhugh,"  and  a  smile  of  admiration 
beamed  upon  Bob,  "I  would  like  you  to  write  an  ac- 
count of  the  battle  for  publication  in  the  papers,  as 
you  seem  to  have  noted  everything  accurately." 

"I  shall  be  much  pleased  to  do  so,"  said  Bob. 
"Send  me  out  a  little  stationery  and  I  will  write  it 
tomorrow." 

When  Bob  was  seated  to  write  up  the  battle,  he 
said :  "Now  I  have  never  done  any  particular  good 
in  this  world,  but  I  intend  to  do  a  good  act  now.  I 
am  going  to  promote  Captain  Dobbins.  He  is  a  noble 
fellow  and  does  not  forget  a  kindness  done  to  him." 

Bob  worked  all  day  at  his  report,  frequently  rub- 
bing his  hands  and  laughing  to  himself.  In  a  few 
days  the  following  account  appeared: 


186  STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

THE  SNAKES  DEFEATED— THE  GREAT  VICTORY. 


•'Captain  Dobbins  Destroys  the    Flower  of  the  Snake  Tribe  in  a 

Single   Battle  at  Salmon  Falls   without   Losing  a  Man. 

The    Right   Man    in  the   Right    Place. 


"So  much  fruitless  chasing  after  the  savages 
occurs  on  the  frontier  that  our  readers  will  relish 
the  following  brief  account  of  the  destruction  of  the 
marauding  Snakes  by  Captain  Dobbins,  United 
States  regulars,  on  the  13th  inst. 

"While  scouting  in  the  vicinity  of  old  Fort  Boise 
with  Company  E  and  part  of  Company  D,  Captain 
bobbins  discovered  the  trail  of  a  large  band  of 
Snake  Indians,  who  were  returning  from  a  thieving 
expedition  to  the  John  Day  settlement  with  several 
thousand  horses  and  a  large  amount  of  other 
plunder.  Instantly  the  command  was  put  in  mo- 
tion and  the  pursuit  commenced.  The  trail  led  across 
the  great  bend  of  Snake  river  and  was  easily  fol- 
lowed. Four  hours'  hard  riding  brought  the  com- 
mand in  sight  of  the  fleeing  savages.  When  they 
saw  they  were  pursued  by  United  States  troops  they 
made  every  effort  to  escape.  They  could  be  seen, 
darting  like  deyils  about  in  the  cloud  of  dust  raised 
by  the  immense  herd  of  horses  they  were  driving, 


HOW  CAPTAIN  DOBBINS  WAS  PROMOTED          187 

and  with  frantic  efforts  trying  to  urge  them  for- 
ward. Such  bulky  articles  of  plunder  as  impeded 
their  progress  was  abandoned  and  all  kinds  of 
articles  were  strewn  along  their  path.  Dobbins 
rose  at  the  head  of  his  troops,  silent  and  erect,  his 
teeth  firmly  set,  while  his  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the 
cloud  of  dust  ahead,  well  knowing  that  from  it  at 
any  moment  might  emerge  the  bloodthirsty  savages 
to  give  him  battle.  But  a  stern  chase  is  a  long  chase. 
Salmon  Falls  was  reached  before  the  Indians  were 
overhauled  and  brought  to  bay.  A  few  attempted 
to  drive  their  horses  on,  while  the  main  body,  as 
near  as  could  be  ascertained,  over  2,000,  turned  and 
charged  upon  the  troops.  But  charge  met  charge, 
and  in  an  instant  their  line  was  broken  and  they 
were  running  in  every  direction  for  shelter. 

They  rallied  again,  and  with  frightful  yells,  came 
down  upon  the  little  band.  Firmly  Captain  Dob- 
bins held  his  ground  and  the  savages  recoiled  before 
the  deadly  fire  of  his  rifles.  Only  an  instant,  and 
again  they  came,  riding  to  the  very  muzzles  of  the 
blazing  guns.  The  chivalry  of  the  plains  was  there, 
and  its  flower,  the  great  chief,  Crazy  Horse,  fought 
like  a  raging  lion  among  his  fallen  braves.  He  was 
determined  to  conquer,  and  again  he  charged,  but 
in  vain.  For  there  stood  the  little  band  with  rifles 
blazing  a  constant  stream  of  fire,  and  there  was 


188          STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

Captain  Dobbins.  When  the  great  chief  saw  he  was 
defeated,  he  resolved  to  die  or  to  avenge  the  death 
of  his  people.  With  uplifted  tomahawk,  he  rode  full 
upon  the  troops.  Their  leader  awaited  him  with 
flashing  eyes  and  drawn  sabre.  They  met  like 
knights  of  old;  this  savage  chief,  the  terror  of  the 
plains,  and  the  mild,  unassuming  captain  of  Com- 
pany D.  Civilization  confronted  barbarism.  The 
conflict  was  short.  It  was  a  fitting  place  for  such 
a  conflict,  the  home  of  the  savage.  The  sound  of 
the  falls  had  lulled  him  to  sleep  when  a  child.  A 
wave  of  the  wind  bore  its  roar  across  the  battlefield 
to  silence  his  dying  groan.  When  their  chief  fell 
the  Indians  fled,  leaving  all  their  horses  and  plunder 
in  the  hands  of  the  victors.  About  fifty  dead  war- 
riors were  found  on  the  battlefield.  And  it  is  known 
that  hundreds  were  carried  away,  as  is  the  custom 
among  these  people.  Conservative  estimates,  made 
by  those  who  were  in  a  position  to  judge,  place  the 
loss  to  the  Indians  at  not  less  than  500.  Over  2,000 
head  of  horses  and  mules  were  captured,  besides 
much  other  property  of  but  little  value  except  to 
the  Indians  themselves. 

"This  is  the  severest  blow  the  Snake  Indians  have 
ever  suffered  and  will  undoubtedly  put  a  stop  to 
their  marauding  depredations  against  the  whites. 

"Too  much  praise  cannot  be  given    to    Captain 


HOW  CAPTAIN  DOBBINS  WAS  PROMOTED          189 

Dobbins  and  his  brave  command,  who  won  this 
phenomenal  victory  without  the  loss  of  a  single 
man.  The  scouts,  Bob  Fitzhugh  and  Dave  Snell, 
also  deserve  worthy  mention  for  efficient  services 
rendered  in  trailing  the  savages." 

This  graphic  account  was  extensively  published 
and  attracted  much  attention,  especially  in  military 
circles.  I  was  inclined  to  think,  while  perusing  it, 
that  Bob  had  mistaken  his  calling.  Had  he  chosen 
to  enter  the  literary  field  he  might  have  created  as 
great  a  sensation  there  as  he  had  among  the  In- 
dians. 

Some  may  have  thought  the  battle  overdrawn,  but 
the  troops  who  shared  the  captain's  glory  were  not 
inclined  to  contradict  it,  and  Bob  stoutly  maintained 
its  accuracy.  Captain  Dobbins'  name  was  in  every 
one's  mouth.  The  bright  eyes  of  beauty  beamed  on 
him  wherever  he  went,  and  he  was  toasted  far  and 
near  as  the  great  Indian  fighter  of  the  Northwest. 
Fame  pursued  him  industriously  from  that  day.  In 
a  few  weeks  he  was  called  to  more  active  duty  in 
the  Southern  states,  where  he  was  promoted  until 
he  wore  the  uniform  of  a  lieutenant-colonel.  He 
honored  it,  too.  Before  starting  East  he  went  to 
see  Bob,  and  warmly  thanked  him  for  the  account 
of  his  maiden  fight  at  Salmon  Falls,  and  for  turn- 
ing the  tide  in  his  favor. 

Bob  and  I  closed  our  accounts  when  the  horses 


190          STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

were  all  gone,  and  I  found  I  had  made  just  $5,420, 
besides  Bob's  present,  my  bay  horse,  which  I  shall 
never  part  with. 

I  am  just  walking  on  air  now;  I  can  buy  the  little 
farm  in  the  Willamette,  and  pay  cash  down.  Bob 
has  been  trying  to  get  me  to  go  with  him  after  more 
horses ;  he  might  as  well  talk  to  a  cyclone  on  its  way 
to  Kansas.  I  am  off  for  Webfoot  tomorrow. 


(By  courtesy  of  O.  R.  &  N.) 
CASTLE  ROCK  ON  THE  COLUMBIA  RIVER 


A  Legend  of  Wallowa  Lake. 


IX. 


At  Boise  City  I  purchased  a  couple  of  mule  teams 
of  eight  mules  each,  and  proceeded  on  the  way  to 
Wallula  for  a  load  of  freight.  As  my  mules  had 
come  across  the  plains  that  season,  I  concluded  to 
stop  in  Grand  Ronde  valley,  where  the  grass  was 
good,  and  let  them  recruit.  I  made  camp  about  ten 
miles  down  the  valley  from  where  the  old  immi- 
grant road  enters  it,  and  to  employ  the  time,  went 
elk  hunting.  Three  of  us  in  the  party,  we  rode 
about  twenty  miles  north  and  camped  on  the  moun- 
tain near  Wallowa  valley.  The  next  morning,  near 
our  camp,  we  met  six  Wallowa  Indians  going  after 
a  band  of  elk  they  had  seen  the  evening  before  near 
our  camp.  We  accepted  their  invitation  to  go  with 
them.  One  of  them  was  a  young  chief  named  Joseph, 
afterwards  to  cause  much  trouble  as  the  leader  of 
an  insurrection  against  the  whites  in  1878,  and 
generally  known  as  the  Nez  Perce  war,  although  but 
few  Nez  Perce  Indians  were  in  the  outbreak.  Chief 


192          STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

Joseph  was  quite  an  intelligent  Indian,  and  was 
recognized  then  as  a  leader  among  his  people.  He 
said  we  must  observe  great  caution  in  approaching 
the  elk,  and  be  sure  to  kill  all  we  wanted  first,  for 
elk,  when  frightened,  will  travel  ten  or  twelve 
miles  before  they  stop,  and  then  will  keep  pickets 
out  behind  and  be  on  the  lookout  for  several  days. 

We  kept  under  cover  as  much  as  possible,  and 
approached  cautiously  until,  emerging  from  a  strip 
of  timber,  we  were  in  thirty  yards  of  the  game  we 
sought.  All  unconscious  of  our  presence,  they  were 
taking  their  ease,  about  forty  of  them.  Some  were 
feeding,  some  were  lying  down,  and  one  old  fellow 
nearest  to  us  appeared  to  be  asleep  standing  on  his 
feet.  His  eyes  were  closed  and  he  lazily  flapped  his 
long  ears  to  drive  away  the  gnats  that  hummed 
about  him.  Joseph  gave  the  signal  by  raising  his 
rifle,  and  nine  shots  rang  out  almost  as  one  report. 
Four  elk  dropped  in  their  tracks,  and  the  rest,  in- 
stead of  running  away,  turned  startled  eyes  upon 
us  and  stood  still.  We  had  muzzle  loading  rifles, 
and  nine  powder  horns  were  raised  at  once  for  an- 
other charge  of  powder.  Before  we  were  ready  to 
fire  again  the  herd  started  to  run;  as  they  plunged 
down  the  hill  we  gave  them  another  volley.  When 
it  was  all  over,  we  had  thirteen  fat  elk  for  our 
morning's  work. 

The  Indians  were  delighted,  and  returned  to  their 


A  LEGEND  OF  WALLOWA  LAKE  193 

village  for  help  to  take  care  of  the  meat.  We  pre- 
pared to  dry  or  jerk  some  of  it.  We  drove  four 
forked  sticks  in  the  ground,  about  ten  feet  apart  in 
a  square.  Across  these  we  laid  poles,  and  then 
smaller  sticks  on  which  to  lay  the  meat,  after  it 
was  cut  in  thin  slices.  Under  this  scaffold  we  built 
a  fire  to  keep  the  flies  away  and  to  assist  the  sun  in 
drying  the  meat.  We  were  several  days  thus  oc- 
cupied, and  during  this  time  I  went  with  the  Indians 
down  the  Wallowa  valley,  a  most  beautiful  one, 
lying  along  the  south  side  of  Wallowa  lake.  On 
the  north  of  the  lake  the  mountains  rose  several 
thousand  feet,  rather  abruptly.  Joseph's  village  was 
an  ideal  one;  it  occupied  the  site  on  which  now 
stands  Enterprise  City. 

While  the  Indians  were  taking  care  of  the  elk 
killed,  Chief  Joseph  was  several  times  at  our  camp. 
On  one  of  these  occasions  he  related  the  following 
incident  in  the  history  of  his  people: 

"A  long  time  ago,"  he  said,  "I  don't  know  how 
long,  but  think  it  was  as  long  as  two  men  can  live 
(meaning  200  years),  our  tribe  was  very  strong, 
and  we  had  many  warriors,  and  went  every  sum- 
mer out  into  the  buffalo  country  to  hunt.  Once  our 
people  met  a  band  of  Blackfeet  warriors  and  had  a 
great  battle.  There  were  a  great  many  Blackfeet, 
and  we  had  only  a  few  warriors.  Red  Wolf  was  the 


194          STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

chief,  and  he  lost  nearly  all  his  braves.  There  was 
great  sorrow  in  the  village  when  he  returned  almost 
alone  and  told  what  the  Blackfeet  had  done. 

"All  that  winter  our  people  made  bows  and  ar- 
rows, and  when  the  spring  came,  Red  Wolf  gathered 
all  his  warriors  and  went  to  fight  the  Blackfeet. 
They  did  not  go  to  the  Blackfeet  country,  for  that 
is  a  long  way  off,  but  found  a  large  band  of  them 
in  the  buffalo  country,  and  had  a  great  battle.  Nearly 
all  the  Blackfeet  were  killed,  and  Red  Wolf  got 
2,000  horses  and  many  scalps,  and  none  of  his  war- 
riors were  killed.  When  he  came  back  home  our 
people  were  glad,  and  danced  many  days. 

"Every  year  Red  Wolf  went  to  the  buffalo  coun- 
try and  fought  the  Blackfeet;  sometimes  we  lost 
many  warriors.  Red  Wolf  got  old  and  died,  but 
still  our  people  fought  every  summer,  and  took  many 
scalps.  Young  Red  Wolf,  the  old  chief's  son,  led 
the  warriors,  and  we  were  a  great  people.  Every 
boy  went  to  the  buffalo  country  as  soon  as  he  was 
big  enough  to  fight.  Once,  when  Young  Red  Wolf 
and  a  great  many  braves  were  out  hunting  buffalo, 
the  Blackfeet  came  on  them  while  they  were  all 
asleep  and  killed  a  great  many  and  followed  the 
rest.  Every  day  they  fought,  but  the  Blackfeet  were 
so  many,  as  many  as  the  blades  of  grass  on  the 
hills.  When  Red  Wolf  crossed  the  lake  he  had  only 


A  LEGEND  OF  WALLOWA  LAKE  195 

.a  few  braves  and  he  could  fight  no  more.  The 
Blackfeet  camped  on  the  other  side  of  the  lake,  and 
built  great  fires  and  shouted  and  danced;  but  no 
fires  were  in  our  village,  and  the  women  wailed  for 
our  lost  braves. 

"Red  Wolf  had  one  child,  a  daughter,  Wahluna. 
She  was  very  sorry  for  her  people,  and  loved  her 
father,  who  could  fight  no  more,  but  said  they  would 
all  be  killed  when  the  Blackfeet  came  around  the 
lake.  At  night,  while  they  were  all  wailing  for  the 
dead,  Wahluna  went  down  in  the  willows  by  the 
lake,  and  when  everyone  had  gone  away  from  the 
water,  she  got  in  her  canoe  and  paddled  across  the 
lake  to  the  camp  of  the  Blackfeet.  Her  paddle  made 
no  sound,  and  they  did  not  hear  her  until  she  stood 
by  the  fire  and  said :  'I  am  Wahluna,  Red  Chief's 
child.  I  want  to  talk  to  the  great  chief  of  your 
people.' 

"Then  the  great  chief  said :  'What  words  has  the 
daughter  of  Red  Wolf  to  speak?  My  ears  are  open.' 

"Wahluna  said:  'Our  warriors  are  nearly  all 
gone,  only  a  few  are  left,  and  our  women  and  chil- 
dren are  wailing  for  our  dead.  It  is  dark  in  our 
village,  and  we  have  no  fires,  for  we  are  afraid  of 
the  great  chief  of  the  Blackfeet.  Red  Wolf  says 
tomorrow  all  will  die.  When  you  come  you  will 
only  find  old  men  and  women  and  children ;  you  can 


196          STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

kill  the  old  people  and  take  the  young  girls  and 
children  for  slaves ;  but  when  you  come  to  your  own 
village  your  women  and  young  girls  cannot  hear 
your  warriors  shout,  for  we  will  wail  loud  for  our 
dead  braves,  and  your  women  will  wail  with  us,  and 
there  will  be  no  joy  in  your  village.  You  have  many 
scalps  of  our  young  warriors,  and  do  not  want  the 
scalps  of  old  men  and  women.  If  you  go  to  your 
own  country  and  do  not  come  to  our  village,  then 
our  fires  can  burn  again.  We  can  never  fight  the 
great  chief  again,  for  our  braves  are  all  dead.' 

"Then  Wahluna  laid  her  face  in  the  sand,  and  did 
not  move.  Then  Tlesca,  a  young  chief,  the  son  of 
the  great  chief,  laid  his  robe  upon  her  shoulders 
and  said:  'My  heart  is  sore  with  yours,  and  I  will 
not  kill  any  more  of  your  people.' 

"Then  the  great  chief  was  angry  and  said :  'Her 
people  are  dogs.  Let  the  brave  Chief  Tlesca  take  his 
robe  from  her  shoulders  that  she  may  die.' 

"But  Tlesca  said:  'The  daughter  of  Red  Wolf, 
who  has  fought  our  bravest  warriors  along  the  trail 
for  a  thousand  miles,  is  not  a  dog.  For  one  whole 
moon  he  has  fought  our  braves  by  day  and  by  night. 
He  had  nothing  to  eat,  and  his  knees  were  weak; 
we  could  see  him  stagger  when  he  ran ;  but  when  he 
turned  to  fight  for  his  people,  his  heart  was  great. 
I  am  the  only  one  of  all  our  warriors  who  would 


A  LEGEND  OF  WALLOWA  LAKE  197 

fight  him  alone;  my  shoulder  is  broken  by  his  war 
club.  My  robe  is  on  the  maiden's  shoulders;  I  will 
not  take  it  away.  I  have  spoken.' 

"Tlesca  was  a  great  warrior,  and  the  Great  Chief 
loved  him  and  said :  'The  great  warrior  Tlesca  has 
spoken,  and  his  words  are  good.  I  will  lay  my  robe 
on  his.'  Then  Wahluna  knew  her  people  might  live, 
and  went  back  to  her  canoe. 

"When  she  took  her  paddle,  Tlesca  was  standing 
there,  and  said:  'When  twelve  moons  are  passed 
Wahluna  will  listen  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  and 
she  will  hear  a  great  owl  down  by  the  lake.  Come 
when  you  hear  the  owl  and  I  will  speak.' 

"And  Wahluna  counted  the  moons,  and  when 
twlve  were  passed,  she  listened,  when  all  in  the  vil- 
lage were  asleep,  and  she  heard  the  great  owl  down 
by  the  lake.  Then  she  put  her  robe  on  and  went 
through  the  village.  Her  feet  made  no  sound,  and 
no  one  saw  her.  At  the  edge  of  the  lake  she  found 
Tlesca.  He  said:  'The  maidens  of  the  Blackfeet 
are  fair,  and  many  look  on  Tlesca,  for  he  is  a  great 
warrior;  but  his  heart  is  with  Wahluna,  and  he 
wants  her  for  his  wife.' 

"Wahluna  said:  'My  people  would  kill  you,  for 
their  hearts  are  sore,  for  the  wolves  have  gnawed 
the  bones  of  their  young  men.' 

"Tlesca  said :  'When  six  moons  have  passed,  Wah- 


198          STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

luna  will  listen  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  when  all 
are  asleep,  and  she  will  hear  a  grey  wolf  across  the 
lake.  Let  Wahluna  come,  and  Tlesca  will  speak.' 

"Wahluna  counted  the  moons,  and  when  six  were 
gone,  and  all  were  asleep  in  the  middle  of  the  night, 
she  heard  the  grey  wolf  across  the  lake.  Then  she 
took  her  canoe  and  went  across  the  lake  and  found 
Tlesca.  He  said :  'When  the  sun  is  over  the  great 
mountain  I  will  come  to  the  Red  Wolf's  village  with 
my  father,  the  Great  Chief  of  the  Blackfeet,  and  all 
our  chiefs  and  many  great  warriors,  and  we  will 
smoke  the  peace  pipe  together,  and  the  Blackfeet 
and  Red  Wolf's  people  will  be  brothers,  and  Red 
Wolf  can  come  to  hunt  the  bufflao,  and  we  will 
catch  fish  from  your  lake.' 

"Wahluna  went  back  to  the  village  and  told  her 
father  that  when  the  sun  was  over  the  great  moun- 
tain the  Great  Chief  and  his  warriors  would  come 
and  smoke  the  pipe  of  peace  with  the  Wallowas. 
When  the  Blackfeet  came,  they  smoked  together  and 
were  brothers.  The  Great  Chief  said:  'Tlesca  is  a 
great  warrior,  and  his  heart  is  with  Wahluna,  and 
he  wants  her  for  his  wife.' 

"Red  Wolf  sent  runners  to  all  his  friends,  the 
Nez  Perces,  the  Kiyouses  and  the  Yakimas,  and  they 
came,  and  there  was  a  great  wedding,  and  Wahluna 
said  she  would  sit  in  Tlesca's  lodge.  The  young  men 


A  LEGEND  OF  WALLOWA  LAKE  199 

brought  deer,  bear  and  elk  from  the  mountains,  and 
the  girls  caught  fish  in  the  lakes,  and  they  had  a 
great  feast,  and  all  were  very  happy.  Tlesca  and 
Wahluna  got  into  a  canoe,  when  the  sun  went  down, 
and  went  out  on  the  lake,  for  it  was  very  fair  to  look 
at.  All  the  people  stood  on  the  shore  and  watched' 
their  canoe.  Then  they  saw  a  great  serpent  come  out 
of  the  water,  and  the  canoe  was  turned  over,  and 
Tlesca  and  Wahluna  were  never  seen  again.  Then 
the  Blackfeet  went  back  to  their  own  country  and 
said  the  Great  Spirit  was  angry  because  they  had 
made  peace  with  Red  Wolf  and  his  people." 

After  a  few  moments,  I  asked  the  young  chief 
if  the  story  was  a  true  one,  or  just  a  story  told  to 
please  the  children. 

"O,"  he  said,  "it  is  all  true;  I  have  heard  my 
people  tell  it  many  times,  and  have  heard  some  of 
the  Blackfeet  warriors  tell  it,  too." 

"But,"  I  asked,  "do  you  believe  that  a  great  snake 
came  and  swallowed  Tlesca  and  Wahluna?" 

"No,"  he  answered,  "one  big  wind,  one  big  wave; 
that's  all." 


(By  courtesy  of  O.  R.  &  N.) 
ON  THE  ROAD  TO  MT.  HOOD 


Ned  Leach's  Story, 


x. 


After  three  weeks'  resting,  my  mules  were  in  fine 
condition,  and  finding  that  I  could  load  at  Walla 
Walla,  I  crossed  the  Blue  mountains  to  that  place 
and  loaded  my  wagons  with  flour  and  bacon  for 
Silver  City.  At  Walla  Walla  I  met  Ned  Leach,  a 
very  dear  friend.  He  was  sick,  and  begged  me  to 
stay  with  him,  so  I  sent  my  teams  on  and  stayed  to 
take  care  of  Ned.  I  had  met  him  at  Elk  City  while 
engaged  in  mining. 

Ned  had  come  West  smitten  with  the  gold  fever 
about  a  year  previous  to  the  time  our  acquaintance 
began.  From  the  first  I  was  attracted  to  him.  We, 
being  about  the  same  age,  soon  became  fast  friends 
and  companions.  Ned  had  been  delicately  reared, 
and  appeared  out  of  place  on  the  frontier.  He  lacked 
the  rugged  constitution  so  common  to  the  sons  of 
the  West.  He  was  never  able  to  stand  much  ex- 
posure, and  it  soon  became  apparent  that  a  cough, 


202  STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

which  had  been  troubling  him  for  several  months, 
was  likely  to  prove  serious. 

In  the  fall  of  1861  we  concluded  he  had  best  go 
down  from  the  high  mountains  for  the  winter.  Re- 
luctantly we  said  good-by,  he  returning  to  Walla 
Walla,  and  again  following  a  rush  of  miners  to 
Boise  Basin,  Idaho.  Three  years  later  we  again  met 
at  Walla  Walla.  The  meeting  was  to  me  a  very 
painful  one.  Ned  was  far  gone  with  quick  con- 
sumption, and  I  saw  at  a  glance  that  he  could  live 
but  a  few  months.  He  fully  realized  his  fate,  and 
said  as  I  grasped  his  hand:  "I  am  so  glad  I  have 
found  you,  for  I  don't  think  I  have  very  long  to  hunt 
up  and  say  good-by  to  my  old  friends." 

In  a  few  days  he  was  confined  to  his  room,  and 
until  his  death,  two  months  later,  I  scarcely  ever 
left  him.  He  never  lost  his  cheerful  manner,  and 
it  was  during  the  long  hours  I  sat  by  his  bedside  he 
related  his  strange  adventures  since  he  had  left  me. 

Soon  after  I  returned  to  this  place,  said  Ned,  I 
heard  of  the  rich  finds  at  Placerville  and  Bannock 
City,  Idaho.  My  cough  had  almost  ceased  to  trouble 
me,  and  so  I  joined  a  party  and  went  to  the  mines. 
I  got  a  gulch  claim  near  Placerville  and  made  about 
$800.  Early  in  the  spring  the  Sioux  Indians  killed 
some  teamsters  near  the  mouth  of  Boise  river.  We 
made  up  a  crowd  and  went  out  to  bury  the  dead 


NED  LEACH'S  STORt  203 

and  punish  the  murderers.  We  thought  best  to 
give  the  Indians  a  lesson  so  that  they  might  in  the 
future  be  afraid  to  molest  the  prospectors  about  the 
new  camp.  We  scouted  around  on  the  Malheur  river 
and  up  Snake  river  as  far  as  Salmon  Falls.  There 
were  sixty-two  of  us  under  Captain  Jeff  Stanifer, 
and  we  hunted  around  pretty  industriously  for  a 
fight,  but  not  an  Indian  could  we  find.  After  a 
three  weeks'  jaunt  all  returned  except  Charlie  Webb 
and  I.  We  had  found  some  fine  gold  on  the  river 
bars  and  made  up  our  mind  to  stay  awhile  and  pros- 
pect. We  knew  it  was  a  ticklish  business  to  stay 
there  so  far  from  any  settlement,  but  as  no  fresh 
sign  of  Indians  had  been  found,  we  thought  we 
could  manage  to  escape  notice  should  any  bands  be 
prowling  around.  We  kept  two  months'  provisions 
and  made  our  camp  about  two  miles  below  the  falls, 
on  the  north  side  of  the  river.  We  constructed  a 
kind  of  rocker  out  of  some  driftwood  and  went  co 
work.  The  gold  was  very  fine  and  difficult  to  save, 
but  we  took  out  a  little  every  day  and  kept  changing 
about,  hoping  to  find  a  richer  spot.  After  we  had 
been  at  work  about  a  week,  we  decided  to  move  up 
near  the  falls  and  try  a  little  bar  there. 

Early  one  morning,  we  started  to  move  our  camp 
fixtures.  We  had  made  several  trips,  and  in  return- 
ing for  the  last  load  were  fired  upon  by  about  fifty 


204          STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

Indians,  who  were  secreted  in  the  sage  brush  on  the 
right  bank.  We  both  fell.  Why  I  did  so  I  can  never 
tell,  for  I  was  not  touched,  but  poor  Charlie  was 
struck  by  three  balls  and  never  moved  after  he  fell. 
As  soon  as  the  Indians  fired  they  ran  towards  us. 
My  only  chance  of  escape  was  in  flight,  and  I  turned 
and  ran  up  the  river  towards  our  new  camp,  where 
our  guns  and  ammunition  were.  As  you  know,  I 
am  a  great  runner,  and  I  ran  hard  and  left  them 
behind,  but  I  ran  on  at  my  best  gait,  for  I  thought 
the  others  would  get  their  horses  and  head  me  off 
where  I  should  be  compelled  to  leave  the  river  bars 
to  get  around  the  falls.  I  was  not  mistaken,  and 
when  I  reached  the  falls  my  pursuers  were  far  be- 
hind. I  cautiously  climbed  the  bank  to  look  for 
the  others.  Sure  enough,  they  had  mounted  their 
ponies  and  were  running  pell  mell  and  very  near 
me.  There  was  no  possible  chance  to  escape  should 
I  show  myself  above  the  bank.  I  turned  and  ran 
back  and  secreted  myself  among  the  yellow  sage 
brush  which  grew  on  the  higher  parts  of  the  bar. 
The  Indians  had  caught  sight  of  me  as  I  ran  down 
the  hill  and  pushed  their  horses  in  pursuit.  As  they 
came  on  the  bar  they  were  joined  by  those  who  had 
followed  me  on  foot.  Peeping  out  through  the  tops 
of  the  sage,  I  could  see  them  hunting  for  me.  They 
did  this  very  systematically,  riding  abreast  back  and 


NED  LEACH'S  STORY  205 

forth  through  the  sage,  working  it  all  over  like  plow- 
ing a  field.  They  kept  about  ten  feet  apart,  and  1 
saw  they  were  certain  to  find  me  unless  I  couid 
manage  to  crawl  back  into  the  place  they  had  al- 
ready rode  over.  Accordingly,  when  they  had  passed 
by  in  about  fifty  yards  of  me,  I  commenced  crawling 
back  across  their  line  of  march,  but  almost  immedi- 
ately after  I  moved  they  saw  me  and  set  up  a  great 
yell  and  started  to  run  me  down.  It  was  a  hard 
deal  for  me  afoot  to  run  against  horses  in  the  open 
ground,  but  it  was  all  the  show  I  had  left,  and  I 
broke  cover  and  ran  up  the  river  again.  The  sage 
grew  in  bunches  about  two  feet  high  and  was  a 
slight  impediment  to  the  speed  of  the  ponies.  But 
I  was  compelled  to  make  good  time,  and  I  ran  as 
I  never  ran  before.  For  several  hundred  yards  I 
outran  the  whole  band.  I  had  no  hope  of  escape 
but  was  instinctively  running  from  instant  death. 
When  I  reached  the  falls  I  was  completely  hemmed 
in.  The  broad  river  on  my  right,  the  high  bank  on 
my  left,  the  mighty  flood  of  falling  water  in  front 
and  fifty  yelling  Indians  behind.  As  I  reached  the 
end  of  the  race  the  Indians  commenced  firing.  I 
ran  on,  half  hoping  to  find  some  hole  in  the  rock 
wall  where  I  could  crawl  and  hide,  but  it  rose 
smooth  and  solid  and  the  bullets  striking  it  dropped 
fragments  of  rock  at  my  feet.  In  utter  despair,  I 


206          STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

now  kept  on  toward  the  water,  intending  to  plunge 
into  the  flood.  Of  course,  I  had  no  hope  to  escape 
drowning,  but  I  preferred  death  to  mutilation  at 
the  hands  of  the  Indians. 

The  water  where  it  first  pours  over  the  rock  is  a 
smooth  sheet,  but  near  the  bottom  it  is  turned  to  a 
white  foam  or  spray.  Feeling  that  my  last  mo- 
ment had  come,  I  plunged  into  the  torrent  of  falling 
water  a  few  feet  from  the  rock  wall.  My  momentum 
carried  me  forward,  although  the  water  crushed  me 
down.  Under  the  terrible  pressure  I  crawled  for- 
ward on  the  smooth  rock  on  which  I  had  fallen  and 
the  water  seemed  to  assist  my  motion.  I  gasped  for 
breath  and  found  the  water  was  not  bearing  me 
down,  although  it  was  thundering  upon  my  feet  as 
though  it  would  crush  them.  Again  I  caught  my 
breath  and  found  I  was  out  of  the  water.  I  rose  to 
my  feet  and  found  I  was  in  an  air  chamber  beneath 
the  falls.  I  could  see  the  water  rushing  down  to 
batter  upon  the  rock  floor  as  though  it  would  tear 
it  into  fragments,  and  the  roar  it  made  was  dread- 
ful; even  the  solid  rock  shook  under  my  feet.  I 
could  hear  no  sound  from  the  Indians,  and  when  I 
had  gained  composure  and  strength,  I  moved 
cautiously  forward  along  the  slippery  rock.  There 
was  barely  light  enough  to  see  my  footing  and  the 
water  dashed  down  within  reach  of  my  hand  on 


NED  LEACH'S  STORY  207 

either  side.  The  floor  inclined  upwards  and  the  air 
space  grew  wider  as  I  moved  cautiously  along.  I 
had  gone  about  twenty  feet  when  I  came  to  the 
perpendicular  wall  which  formed  the  dam  over 
which  the  great  river  was  pouring.  There  was  a 
great  crack,  to  which  I  made  my  way,  and  found 
myself  where  the  air  was  apparently  dry,  only  it 
was  whirling  about  as  though  being  driven  by  the 
torrent  first  this  way  and  then  that.  I  was  aston- 
ished beyond  measure  at  my  miraculous  escape,  and 
felt  certain  the  Indians  could  not  find  me,  and  that 
I  could  manage  to  get  out  through  the  water,  though 
at  that  time  I  had  no  definite  idea  of  how  I  could 
do  it.  My  fright  gradually  subsided,  and  then  I  did 
something  I  had  never  done  before.  I  prayed.  Yes, 
I,  who  had  no  faith  in  God,  knelt  down  on  the  rock 
there  under  the  falls  and  thanked  him  that  I  was 
alive.  It  never  occurred  to  me  that  I  did  not  be- 
lieve in  God,  but  it  seemed  most  natural  for  me 
to  do  as  I  did.  After  awhile  I  went  further  into  the 
opening  of  the  rock,  which  appeared  to  have  been 
made  by  the  sinking  of  the  floor,  leaving  a  horizontal 
split  reaching,  as  I  found  afterward,  400  or  500  feet 
back  under  the  falls,  and  extending  nearly  across 
the  river,  which  was  something  like  a  half  mile  wide. 
The  floor  ascended  gradually  as  I  went  back  from 
the  opening  until  it  was  not  more  than  a  foot  from 


208          STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

the  roof.  You  may  well  imagine  my  emotions  were 
strange.  The  trembling  of  the  rock,  the  dreadful 
roar  of  the  water,  the  dim  light,  the  consciousness 
that  I  was  underneath  the  mighty  falls  with  the 
bloodthirsty  Indians  on  the  outside,  and  above  all, 
the  uncertainty  of  ever  getting  through  the  falling 
flood  to  the  outer  world  again.  For  a  time,  and  for 
the  first  time  in  my  life,  I  was  in  utter  despair.  I 
shouted  and  could  just  faintly  hear  my  own  voice. 

When  the  sun  rose  higher  I  had  more  light,  but 
there  was  no  opening  anywhere.  All  the  light  I 
had  came  through  the  water  and  it  was  not  a  regu- 
lar light.  It  seemed  to  come  and  go,  as  the  louder 
sounds  of  the  falls  did.  I  sat  down  and  tried  to 
think  what  I  should  do.  I  wondered  if  the  Indians 
were  making  any  efforts  to  reach  me,  or  if  they 
thought,  as  would  look  almost  certain,  that  I  was 
drowned.  At  any  rate,  I  felt  sure  they  would  not 
dare  plunge  into  the  falls  as  I  had,  and  then  they 
would  not  know  of  the  air  chamber  or  the  cave. 

Then  my  mind  reverted  to  poor  Charlie  lying  dead 
on  the  bar.  Would  they  mutilate  him?  I  ground 
my  teeth  as  I  thought  of  this,  and  my  own  deplor- 
able position.  I  tried  to  measure  time  and  tell  how 
far  the  day  had  passed,  and  wondered  if  I  could  tell 
a  day  from  a  week.  When  I  thought  it  should  be 
night  again  the  light  continued  and  even  grew 


NED  LEACH'S  STORY  209 

brighter,  so  I  knew  the  sun  must  still  be  shining. 
Brighter  and  brighter  it  grew,  until  I  thought  the 
flood  which  formed  my  doorway  must  be  lessened 
in  volume.  I  thought  the  Indians  might  by  some 
contrivance  be  diverting  a  portion  of  the  water  from 
the  bank  where  it  started  to  fall  at  the  top  so  as 
to  leave  the  entrance  to  my  cave  open.  I  wondered 
if  anyone  but  me  had  ever  been  saved  from  certain 
death  by  a  sheet  of  falling  water.  Foolish  as  such 
thoughts  were,  I  became  more  alarmed  as  it  seemed 
to  grow  still  lighter,  when,  as  I  thought,  twenty-four 
hours  had  passed  at  least,  and  still  I  could  see  no 
change  in  the  appearance  of  the  door.  I  became  as- 
sured on  this  point  and  thought  the  Indians  must 
have  gone.  I  began  to  study  the  chances  of  my 
getting  out.  I  could  find  the  exact  point  at  which 
I  came  in,  for  I  had  struck  the  air  chamber  in  the 
center  at  its  outer  point  and  very  near  the  wall  of 
rock,  but  I  was  fearful.  I  could  not  start  with 
sufficient  speed  to  force  my  body  through  the  stream. 
I  became  very  hungry,  and  thought  it  best  to  make 
an  effort  to  get  out  before  my  strength  failed  from 
starvation.  While  I  was  running  these  things 
through  my  mind  the  light  began  to  fade.  I  watched 
it  closely,  and  saw  it  was  getting  dark.  It  also  ap- 
peared that  the  water  was  descending  in  a  heavier 
volume  than  before.  Dreadful  forebodings  now  as- 


210          STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

sailed  me.  I  thought  the  river  must  be  raising,  and 
that  it  would  now  be  impossible  for  me  to  escape. 
The  water  seemed  to  increase  in  volume  until  no 
light  could  come  through  it,  and  I  was  in  pitch  dark- 
ness. I  gave  up  in  despair,  and  lay  down  on  the 
rock  without  hope.  I  knew  that  the  river  would  not 
fall  rapidly  when  once  it  rose,  and  fully  expected  to 
be  caged  there  until  I  should  starve  to  death.  How 
long  I  endured  these  dreadful  feelings,  I  do  not 
know.  It  seemed  days  or  weeks  that  I  lay  there. 
My  mind,  instead  of  being  paralyzed  by  the  thought 
of  death,  was  wonderfully  active.  I  thought  of  my 
mother  and  father,  brothers  and  sisters,  and  even 
recalled  many  trifling  incidents  in  my  career  since 
I  had  left  home.  I  could  not  help  thinking  of  the 
man  I  had  killed  here  in  this  town  before  I  went  to 
the  mines,  and  I  blamed  myself  for  it,  though,  as 
you  know,  he  had  snapped  his  pistol  in  my  face  five 
times  before  I  offered  to  defend  myself,  and  struck 
the  blow  which  proved  fatal,  and  everyone  said  I 
was  justified  in  my  actions  and  I  was  acquitted  be- 
fore a  jury.  Well,  there  under  those  falls  in  black 
darkness,  I  was  tried  again  and  found  guilty.  All 
the  testimony  .in  my  behalf  was  of  no  avail.  All  the 
pleading  appeared  a  mockery.  The  judge  solemnly 
said:  "Thou  shalt  not  kill,"  and  I  was  condemned, 
There  was  no  appeal  from  that  court.  The  dreadful 


NED  LEACH'S  STORY  211 

roar  which  filled  my  ears  seemed  to  be  repeating  its 
decision,  and  the  inky  darkness  to  confirm  its  man- 
date. As  other  incidents  in  my  life  passed  rapidly 
through  my  mind,  strange  as  it  may  appear,  I  re- 
called a  story  I  had  read  a  few  years  before  about 
a  California  prospector  who,  while  rambling  in  the 
hills,  had  fallen  into  a  deserted  shaft.  He  reached 
the  bottom  without  serious  injury,  but  found  him- 
self in  darkness.  He  gave  up  all  hope,  and  when,  as 
he  thought,  he  had  been  there  at  least  ten  days,  he 
was  rescued  and  found  he  had  only  been  in  the  pit 
four  hours.  Like  a  flash  of  lightning  the  thought 
came  to  my  mind  that  the  darkness  around  me  might 
be  the  night  and  that  I  had  only  been  confined  0119 
day.  It  appears  incredible,  and  yet  the  thought 
brought  a  flood  of  hope  to  me.  I  clung  to  it,  and 
springing  to  my  feet  I  peered  into  the  blackness  to 
find  a  ray  of  light.  In  vain.  Days  and  weeks,  and 
I  might  truly  say,  months  and  years,  seemed  to  drag 
along,  for  I  could  measure  no  time  and  still  the 
darkness  was  about  me.  At  last,  overcome  with 
mental  fatigue,  I  must  have  lost  consciousness.  Pos- 
sibly it  was  sleep.  I  do  not  know.  For  a  time  I  did 
not  feel  the  terror  of  the  place,  and  felt  at  rest. 
Then,  all  at  once  my  chamber  was  light  again — al- 
most as  light  as  it  had  been  before.  My  hope  re- 
vived again.  I  determined  without  delay  to  try  to 


212  STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

get  out  as  the  light  increased.  I  became  fully  con- 
vinced that  the  sun  was  shining  outside  and  that 
the  water  was  falling  in  no  heavier  volume  than 
when  I  came  in.  As  well  as  I  could  I  examined  the 
rock  to  see  that  my  feet  should  be  placed  where  they 
would  not  slip,  and  carefully  selecting  the  point 
where  I  had  emerged  from  the  water  I  gathered  all 
my  strength,  bowed  my  head,  and  plunged  into  the 
flood.  As  before,  I  was  thrown  flat  upon  the  rock 
by  the  tremendous  force  of  the  water,  but  struggled 
forward  a  few  feet  and  emerged  into  open  air.  As 
soon  as  I  caught  my  breath  and  could  open  my  eyes 
I  saw  the  sun  was  shining  brightly.  The  first  thing 
I  did  was  to  walk  across  the  bar  and  climb  the  bank 
to  see  if  there  were  any  Indians  in  sight.  Care- 
fully I  scanned  the  plains  and  hills,  but  no  one  was 
to  be  seen.  I  started  to  go  and  look  for  Charlie,  when 
I  came  to  the  new  camp  we  were  moving  to  when 
we  were  fired  upon.  I  was  surprised  and  overjoyed 
to  find  everything  just  as  we  had  left  it,  not  a  thing 
gone.  The  Indians  had  not  found  the  spot,  and  no 
doubt  thought  all  our  belongings  were  those  left 
at  the  old  camp,  which  they  had  rifled.  They  had 
stripped  the  body  of  poor  Charlie,  but  except  taking 
the  scalp  they  had  not  mutilated  it.  I  was  very 
hungry  and  returned  to  where  the  provisions  were. 
I  soon  had  a  fire  and  cooked  some  bread  and  bacon. 


NED  LEACH'S  STORY  213 

Then  I  looked  about  and  found  that  the  Indians  had 
taken  the  trail  and  moved  up  the  river.  Our  horses 
and  saddles  were  gone,  but  nearly  all  our  things 
had  been  taken  to  the  new  camp,  and  were  still 
safe.  Fearing  to  start  afoot  to  Boise  City,  I  fixed 
my  camp  in  a  little  notch  in  the  bluff  and  thought 
I  would  watch  the  trail  until  some  white  persons 
came  along  with  whom  I  could  return  to  the  settle- 
ment. The  next  day  after  I  got  out  I  buried  Charlie 
in  the  sand. 

I  did  not  expect  to  wait  long,  for  there  was  more 
or  less  travel  on  that  trail,  but  day  after  day  I 
looked  in  vain  for  some  party  coming  from  or  going 
to  Boise. 

The  river  was  falling  rapidly  and  every  day  the 
volume  of  water  which  concealed  my  cave  became 
less,  until  1  thought  I  could  reach  it  with  ease.  Still, 
I  could  never  bring  myself  to  attempt  it,  although  I 
had  a  great  curiosity  to  return  and  make  further 
explorations. 

I  know  you  will  think  this  a  very  strange  story, 
and  probably  no  one  but  so  dear  a  friend  as  you  are 
would  believe  it.  I  almost  hesitate  to  complete  it, 
for  what  is  to  come  is  the  strangest  part  of  it. 

I  think  I  had  been  there  six  days  after  I  came  out 
of  the  cave,  and  was  on  the  point  of  starting  to 
Boise  City  on  foot,  when  I  saw  a  solitary  horseman 


214          STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

on  the  trail  half  a  mile  from  me.  I  knew  it  was  a 
white  man.  As  he  neared  the  falls  he  left  the  trail 
and  rode  directly  toward  my  camp,  although  he  had 
not  seen  it.  When  he  came  near  where  I  was  se- 
creted I  rose  and  hailed  him.  As  soon  as  he  an- 
swered me  I  knew  him.  He  was  Charley  Plummer, 
who  I  had  known  at  Oro  Fino.  In  a  few  mo- 
ments I  had  explained  to  him  my  distressed  condi- 
tion and  then  conducted  him  to  my  camp.  I  told 
him  of  Charlie's  death  and  my  escape  by  plunging 
into  the  water,  and  the  finding  of  the  cave. 

"Did  the  Indians  see  you  run  into  the  falls?"  he 
asked. 

"Certainly." 

Then  he  said :  "This  place  will  be  safe  from  them 
hereafter.  They  have  always  held  it  in  dread,  and 
now  will  think  it  was  a  spirit  instead  of  a  man 
they  were  pursuing." 

He  asked  if  I  thought  I  could  get  into  the  cave 
again.  I  told  him  the  river  was  falling  very  fast 
and  it  would  be  an  easy  matter  to  reach  it  in  a  few 
days. 

After  we  had  our  supper,  he  asked  if  I  had  made 
any  money  in  the  mines.  I  told  him  of  the  loss  of 
my  horse.  I  was  afoot  and  about  out  of  money.  He 


NED  LEACH'S  STORY  215 

drew  from  his  pocket  a  buckskin  sack  with  about 
$1,200  in  dust  in  it  and  threw  it  at  my  feet. 

"There,  take  that.  I  have  plenty  without  it,  and 
you  are  too  good  a  man  to  be  broke  in  this  country. 
1  have  a  camp  about  ten  miles  up  the  river  and 
the  boys  have  plenty  of  horses.  I  will  go  and  get 
you  one  tomorrow." 

Accordingly,  the  next  morning  he  rode  off  and 
after  a  few  hours  returned  leading  a  horse  with  a 
bridle  and  saddle  on.  He  was  nervous  and  labor- 
ing under  some  kind  of  excitement.  After  riding  to 
the  high  ground  he  came  back  at  full  speed,  and 
said: 

"I  am  pursued.  Six  or  eight  men  are  after  me 
for  some  work  I  did  the  day  before  yesterday  near 
Boise.  I  thought  they  would  not  find  my  trail.  They 
are  well  mounted  and  my  horse  has  had  a  20-mile 
ride  this  morning.  I  can't  very  well  fight  them  all, 
and  I  don't  like  to  ride  a  good  horse  until  he  falls 
dead.  Will  you  show  me  your  cave?" 

I  knew  very  well  that  Charley  was  a  highwayman 
who  had  several  times  defied  arrest  and  that  a  price 
was  offered  for  him,  dead  or  alive.  I  had  no  sym- 
pathy with  his  occupation,  but  I  could  not  help  feel- 
ing kindly  toward  the  man.  I  told  him  I  would  do 
all  I  could  for  him,  and  had  no  doubt  but  that  we 
could  reach  the  cave,  but  that  we  must  abandon  the 


216          STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

camp  fixtures,  as  it  would  not  be  safe  to  try  to  go 
through  the  water  encumbered  with  anything.  He 
took  from  his  pockets  four  large  purses  and  buried 
them  in  different  places  in  the  sand,  then  he  un- 
hitched the  horses  and  started  them  toward  the 
hills. 

"They  will  get  the  horses,"  he  said,  "but  are  not 
likely  to  find  this  camp,  as  there  is  no  fire  burning, 
and  they  will  not  be  looking  for  it." 

By  this  time  we  could  see  the  dust  raised  by  the 
coming  horsemen  not  more  than  half  a  mile  dis- 
tant, though  the  bluff  hid  them  from  our  view.  I 
buried  the  purse  Charley  had  given  me  in  the  sand 
and  we  secreted  our  pistols  and  the  two  guns  I  had 
in  camp  as  well  as  we  could  and  started  for  the 
falls  on  a  run,  for  we  did  not  want  the  horsemen  to 
reach  the  bluff  before  we  made  the  plunge.  As  luck 
would  have  it,  our  horses  turned  and  run  down  the 
river,  one  of  them  having  become  frightened  by  a 
rope  left  hanging  from  the  saddle.  After  giving 
Charley  directions  to  follow  me  and  use  all  his 
strength,  I  plunged  into  the  water  where  I  had  be- 
fore, and  the  next  moment  Charley  was  sprawling 
at  my  feet  inside  the  air  chamber  at  the  mouth  of 
the  cave.  As  I  had  anticipated,  the  flood  had  de- 
creased in  volume  and  its  pressure  was  not  nearly 
so  great  as  when  I  hatf  gone  through  it.  It  was  also 


NED  LEACH'S  STORY  217 

much  lighter  inside  and  we  had  no  trouble  in  work- 
ing our  way  to  the  cave.  By  watching  the  coming 
and  going  of  the  light  we  could  tell  how  the  time 
went.  At  noon  it  was  light  enough  for  us  to  see 
each  others  faces,  and  when  we  judged  the  sun  was 
setting  we  made  the  plunge  and  came  out,  neither 
of  us  falling. 

Everything  about  our  camp  was  as  we  had  left 
it.  The  sheriff  and  his  posse,  for  it  was  they  who 
were  following  Charley's  trail,  had  passed  on  with- 
out seeing  either  camp  or  horses.  Had  we  remained 
in  camp  we  would  not  have  been  discovered.  As  it 
was,  no  harm  was  done,  and  after  an  hour's  walk, 
we  found  our  horses  feeding  a  couple  of  miles  down 
the  river.  The  next  day  Charley's  partners  came 
down  and  brought  a  number  of  horses  and  their 
camp  outfit.  I  saw  they  had  more  money  than  pro- 
visions, and  was  not  at  a  loss  to  guess  how  they  had 
gotten  it.  They  were  all  interested  in  the  cave,  and 
when  I  talked  of  leaving  to  return  to  Boise,  I  saw 
that  they  did  not  like  the  idea. 

"Stay  with  us,"  they  said,  "and  you  shall  have 
an  equal  share  of  all  we  have." 

They  had,  so  they  told  me,  about  $40,000  in  gold 
dust  and  bars,  all  of  which  was  taken  into  the  cave. 

Every  day  the  sheet  of  water  closing  it  up  grew 
thinner,  until  looking  from  the  inside  we  could  dis- 


218          STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

tinguish  objects  on  the  outside.  We  also  carried 
some  camp  fixtures  and  provisions  in,  and  after  a 
time  we  got  some  wood  through  and  tried  a  fire  in 
the  cave. 

Plummer  gave  me  to  understand  that  now  I  knew 
where  their  treasure  was,  they  were  afraid  for  me 
to  go  to  the  settlements  for  fear  that  I  would  be- 
tray them,  and  he  strongly  urged  that  I  remain  at 
the  cave  until  they  were  ready  to  move  their  gold 
to  some  other  hiding  place.  Knowing  the  danger  of 
attempting  to  leave  them  without  their  consent,  I 
agreed  to  stay  and  keep  camp,  but  told  them  plainly 
I  would  not  go  with  them  on  any  of  their  excursions. 
This  was  satisfactory,  and  we  were  soon  on  the 
best  of  terms. 

"Look  out  for  the  horses,"  they  said,  "and  don't 
let  any  one  see  you  go  near  the  cave,  and  that  is  all 
we  want  you  to  do." 

They  had  a  tent,  which  we  pitched  on  an  open 
piece  of  ground,  and  without  any  attempt  at  con- 
cealment a  new  camp  was  made  a  few  hundred  yards 
below.  I  remained  there  about  three  months,  and 
was  alone  most  of  the  time.  I  kept  watch  over 
about  twenty  head  of  horses,  which  the  boys  had, 
and  was  seldom  far  from  my  camp.  The  water  got 
so  low  that  I  could  get  into  the  treasure  house  with- 
out any  trouble.  Indeed,  for  a  time,  I  thought  its 


NED  LEACH'S  STORY  219 

opening  would  be  left  entirely  bare,  for  nothing  but 
a  thin  white  spring  covered  it  from  view.  The 
boys  never  stopped  more  than  one  or  two  nights  at 
the  camp  on  each  visit.  In  fact,  they  were  a  very 
industrious  set  of  highwaymen.  I  have  heard  since 
that  they  robbed  the  Silver  City  stage  several  times, 
and  got  a  very  large  haul  from  ten  miners  whom 
they  robbed  near  Placerville.  Each  time  they  came 
they  were  loaded  down  with  gold  and  had  many  a, 
merry  laugh  when  relating  how  they  got  it.  All 
was  stowed  carefully  in  the  cave.  I  had  many  com- 
punctions of  conscience,  and  not  a  little  fear  about 
the  part  I  was  compelled  to  act.  To  all  intents  and 
purposes,  I  was  a  robber,  but  there  was  no  help  for 
it.  I  knew  enough  about  Plummer  and  his  band 
to  know  they  would  shoot  me  as  they  would  a  do^ 
if  they  once  suspected  I  would  leave  them  without 
their  consent. 

"You  see,  '  said  Plummer  to  me  one  day  when  we 
were  alone,  "the  boys  all  like  you,  and  will  be  your 
friends,  but  you  know  we  must  take  care  of  our 
necks  as  well  as  our  money.  After  you  once  had 
us  in  your  power  some  of  them  wanted  to  make  you 
take  a  hand  at  robbing  with  us.  I  opposed  this,  and 
stood  up  for  you.  All  we  want  is  to  feel  safe.  You 
have  done  nothing  that  you  could  help  doing  about 
the  whole  matter,  and  will  come  out  clear  and  shall 


220          STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

have  your  share  as  we  promised  you.  I  tell  you 
we  have  a  good  pile  already.  When  we  get  enough 
to  make  us  all  rich  we  will  divide  and  each  go  his 
way.  We  had  over  100  pounds  of  dust  when  we  came 
in  last,  and  we  will  make  another  good  haul  soon. 
We  will  wait  until  the  Webfoot  miners  start  home 
in  the  fall,  and  then  after  they  have  divided  up  a 
little  to  us  we  will  pull  out  for  tall  timber." 

About  the  1st  of  October  we  had  what  we  esti- 
mated at  $300,000  in  the  cave.  This  gave  us  $50,000 
each.  Then  we  discussed  what  we  were  going  to 
do  with  it.  All  but  myself  were  likely  to  be  arrested 
for  robbery  at  any  time.  So  much  dust  was  not  con- 
venient to  carry  with  us,  and  we  dared  not  deposit 
with  anyone,  not  even  a  bank.  After  bothering  over 
this  problem  for  some  time,  at  last  we  concluded 
to  leave  it  in  the  cave.  We  took  about  $2,000  each 
and  after  agreeing  to  meet  at  the  falls  again  on  the 
4th  day  of  July  next,  we  separated.  I  went  to  Ban- 
nock City  and  heard  nothing  more  of  my  partners, 
who  for  good  reasons,  kept  in  the  mountains  away 
from  the  settlements.  When  the  appointed  day  ar- 
rived we  met  again  to  get  our  treasure.  We  found 
the  river  much  higher  than  when  we  left  it  the  fall 
before.  A  heavy  sheet  of  water  was  falling  in  front 
of  the  cave,  and  it  was  impossible  to  get  through  it. 
We  stayed  there  about  a  week  and  found  the  river 


NED  LEACH'S  STORY  221 

raising  all  the  time.  Reluctantly  we  agreed  to  meet 
again  the  1st  of  September.  When  that  time  ar- 
rived we  met  near  Boise  City  and  went  together  to 
the  falls.  It  was  night  when  we  reached  the  place, 
and  we  camped  at  our  old  camp.  We  were  up  early 
next  morning,  and  when  it  grew  light  a  sight  was 
before  us  which  rendered  us  speechless.  The  falls 
were  gone,  and  in  their  place  was  only  a  series  of 
rapids  a  mile  long.  It  was  plain  at  a  glance  that 
the  roof  of  our  cave  had  fallen  in,  and  the  river  no 
longer  poured  over  in  a  solid  sheet,  but  ran  foaming 
among  the  great  rocks  until  it  reached  the  level  of 
the  stream  below.  Never  did  men  stand  and  look 
at  a  roaring  river  with  more  despair  than  did  we. 
Our  treasure  was  gone.  No,  it  was  there ;  its  weight 
would  keep  it  near  where  we  had  left  it,  but  it  was 
covered  with  great  masses  of  rock  over  which 
foamed  the  mighty  stream.  Ill-gotten  as  it  was,  we 
felt  its  loss  as  much  as  though  it  had  been  honestly 
earned.  From  being  wealthy,  we  found  ourselves  re- 
duced to  poor  men.  We  discussed  the  project  of  a 
wing  dam  in  the  river,  and  thought  such  an  obstruc- 
tion in  the  rapids  might  lay  the  spot  where  our  gold 
was  bare.  But  that  would  be  expensive,  as  there 
was  no  timber  near,  and  all  of  us  were  ^now  poor. 

Plummer  and  his  band  went  to  Montana,  and  I 
came  here.     I  had  thought  to  go  again  to  the  falls 


222          STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

when  the  river  was  very  low  and  see  if  the  project 
of  the  dam  looked  any  more  feasible  than  when  we 
were  there.  But  I  took  sick  and  now  I  know  that 
what  little  money  I  have  is  all  I  shall  ever  need. 

I  may  add  that  Ned  passed  quietly  away  a  few 
days  after  he  had  concluded  his  story. 

Plummer  and  his  band  were  hanged  a  little  later 
by  vigilantes  at  Virginia  City. 

I  placed  so  much  confidence  in  Ned's  story  that 
a  few  years  later  I  traveled  300  miles  to  see  the  spot 
where  his  treasure  was  buried.  As  he  had  described, 
the  river  ran  foaming  down  over  the  rapids  for  a 
mile  or  more,  but  there  was  no  sign  of  a  great  fall, 
such  as  he  told  of  before  the  cave  broke  down.  Yet 
early  emigrants  to  Oregon  all  agree  that  once  the 
river  fell  in  a  great  unbroken  sheet  at  that  place 
and  the  perpendicular  rock  at  the  edge  of  the  falls 
on  the  north  side  of  the  river  is  to  be  seen  and  pos- 
sibly lends  plausibility  to  Ned's  story. 


J 


(By  courtesy  of  O.  U.  &  N. 
CLOUD  CAP  INN.  MT.  HOOD 


Jack   Hart's    Encounter    With    Road 
Agents. 


XI. 


When  my  teams  returned  after  thirty  days  I  found 
I  had  cleared  over  all  expenses  $2,000,  about  50  per 
cent  on  the  cost  of  the  teams.  Having  some  money 
left  from  my  mining  operations  I  now  purchased 
three  more  mule  teams  and  freighted  them  for  Boise 
City.  Five  teams  were  quite  a  respectable  train, 
and  I  now  felt  able  to  take  things  easy,  and  while 
my  teams  were  on  the  road  I  contented  myself  with 
riding  along  as  wagon  boss.  This  gave  me  oppor- 
tunity to  become  acquainted  with  business  men,  and 
offered  opportunities  for  speculation.  I  freighted 
to  Silver  City,  Auburn,  Placerville,  Bannock,  Lew- 
iston  and  Fort  Colville,  making  good  profits.  I  pur- 
cased  another  pack  train  and  made  several  trips  to 
new  mining  camps  with  good  success. 

It  was  in  the  spring  of  1864,  while  on  a  journey 
through  the  Bitter  Root  mountains  in  Idaho,  that 


224  STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

I  was  fortunate  in  having  Jack  Hart  for  a  com- 
panion, and  never  in  all  my  travels  did  I  have  one 
more  agreeable  or  entertaining  throughout.  Jack 
was  a  typical  frontiersman,  as  genial  a  comrade  and 
as  brave  a  man  as  ever  rode  upon  the  Idaho  trails. 
Straight  as  an  Indian  and  almost  as  dark,  he  stood 
six  feet  two  in  his  stockings  and  sat  his  horse  as 
though  born  for  the  saddle.  Like  all  truly  brave 
men,  Jack  was  tender-hearted  and  averse  to  shed- 
ding blood,  and  here  I  may  remark  that  this  trait 
of  character  cost  him  his  life  while  arresting  Hank 
Vaughn,  a  desperado,  near  Express  Ranch,  a  few 
years  later  than  the  date  of  this  story. 

Knowing  Jack  had  been  on  the  frontier  since  he 
was  a  boy,  I  asked  him  if  he  had  ever  encountered 
road  agents  in  his  travels. 

"O,  yes,"  he  said,  "several  times.  I  will  tell  you 
of  an  adventure  with  a  couple  of  them  only  a  few 
months  ago.  You  may  have  seen  something  about 
it  in  the  papers,  but  for  reasons  which  will  appear 
when  you  hear  the  story,  it  has  never  been  fully  pub- 
lished. In  fact,  I  am  breaking  faith  a  little  to  speak 
of  it  now,  but  most  secrets  come  to  an  end  sooner 
or  later,  and  this  one  may  as  well  be  told  now,  I 
suppose.  I  had  been  up  in  the  Boise  mines  for  about 
six  months  and  was  on  my  way  to  my  home  in  Port- 
land. When  I  crossed  Snake  River  into  Oregon,  at 


JACK  HART'S  ENCOUNTER  WITH  ROAD  AGENTS   225 

Old's  Ferry,  I  overtook  Mike  Ward,  an  old  friend, 
and  we  made  the  trip  together.  I  was  pleased  to 
have  Mike  for  company,  for  the  road  was  infested 
with  bad  characters  from  the  Basin  to  the  Umatilla. 
I  had  about  four  thousand  dollars  in  dust  which  had 
cost  me  some  hard  work,  and  I  did  not  like  the  idea 
of  being  called  upon  to  surrender  it  up  at  the  muzzle 
of  a  shotgun. 

"Moreover,  I  had  promised  my  little  wife,  who 
was  waiting  for  me,  that  I  would  make  numerous 
improvements  about  our  home  when  I  returned, 
Mike  also  had  some  dust  and  seemed  pleased  at 
meeting  me.  We  were  well  mounted  and  both  armad 
to  the  teeth,  and  felt  able  to  take  care  of  ourselves. 
Without  expressing  ourselves  directly  to  that  effect, 
I  think  it  was  thoroughly  understood  between  us 
that  no  one  should  take  our  money  without  fighting 
for  it. 

"You  see,"  said  Mike,  "it  is  not  often  that  more 
than  two  of  these  chaps  work  together  on  this  road 
and  all  we  have  to  do  in  order  to  have  a  fair  show  is 
not  to  let  any  one  get  a  drop  on  us,  and  then  we  must 
be  careful  not  to  both  fire  at  the  same  man  and  give 
the  other  one  a  show  to  pelt  us.  If  we  get  into  a 
fight,  I  will  call  out  which  man  I  fire  at,  so  we  may 


226          STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

not  both  engage  the  same  one,  but  the  thing  to  do 
is  to  keep  our  eyes  open  and  avoid  a  surprise." 

When  we  arrived  at  Miller's  Station,  where  Hunt- 
ington  now  stands,  on  the  Union  Pacific  line,  there 
were  two  horses  hitched  in  front  of  the  old  Adobe 
House,  which  attracted  our  attention  at  once;  not 
but  what  horses  were  plentiful  enough  on  the  road, 
but  that  these  were  something  unusual,  a  bay  and  a 
gray,  racers  both  of  them,  and  no  mistake;  just  such 
horses  as  highwaymen  would  be  likely  to  ride.  They 
were  in  excellent  condition  and  evidently  had  not 
been  jaded  by  travel.  We  looked  them  over  and 
noted  their  glossy  coats,  light  steel  shoes  and  rathar 
new  and  expensive  saddles  and  bridles. 

"Now,"  said  Mike,  as  we  entered  the  building, 
"let  us  take  a  look  at  the  riders." 

We  found  them  seated  at  supper  and,  as  the  bar 
and  dining  room  were  one,  we  had  a  good  oppor- 
tunity to  observe  them.  From  the  first  they  took 
an  especial  interest  in  our  advent  and  only  half  cov- 
ertly watched  our  movements.  One  was  a  low, 
heavy-set  man  with  an  enormous  square  under  jaw 
and  short  cropped  red  whiskers ;  his  face  was  deeply 
pitted  with  smallpox,  and  altogether  he  presented  a 
very  unfavorable  appearance  as  he  peered  at  us 
from  under  a  pair  of  bushy  eyebrows.  His  com- 


JACK  HART'S  ENCOUNTER  WITH  ROAD  AGENTS  227 

panion  was  tall,  dark  complexioned  and  appeared  to 
be  in  delicate  health. 

They  ate  in  silence  and  we  did  not  hear  the  voice 
of  either,  and  we  saw  rather  than  heard  that  they 
were  strangers  to  the  proprietor  of  the  house.  Be- 
fore their  meal  was  finished  I  saw  the  hostler  leading 
their  horses  past  the  window  to  the  stable.  We  had 
intended  to  stay  over  night  at  the  place,  for  the  sun 
was  already  below  the  hills  and  our  horses  had  made 
a  fair  day's  travel,  but  I  said  to  Mike : 

"Let  us  have  supper  and  then  ride  on  to  the  next 
station." 

As  I  said  this,  I  saw  the  short  man  start  and 
glance  at  his  companion. 

"The  next  stopping  place,"  said  the  station  keeper, 
"is  fifteen  miles  from  here,  and  we  are  going  to  have 
a  cloudy  night." 

"Oh,  we  don't  mind  that,"  said  Mike,  and  we 
seated  ourselves  to  our  supper,  which  was  already 
on  the  table.  While  at  supper,  we  had  still  further 
opportunity  to  observe  the  strangers.  They  affected 
careless  airs  and  tried  to  conceal  the  fact  that  they 
regarded  us. with  especial  interest,  but  it  was  of  no 
use ;  it  was  plain  to  us  that  they  were  both  nervous 
and  were  watching  every  movement  we  made.  I 
had  no  idea  who  they  were  but  I  felt  pretty  certain 


228          STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

I  knew  their  occupation,  and  that  was  of  much  more 
importance  to  us. 

When  we  were  again  on  the  road  and  as  soon  as 
we  were  out  of  earshot  of  the  place,  Mike  said : 

"Well,  Jack,  we  are  in  for  it  sooner  than  I  ex- 
pected. Do  you  know  who  those  chaps  are?" 

"No,"  I  answered;  "I  never  saw  either  of  them 
before,  and  I  would  feel  much  better  if  I  was  sure 
I  should  never  see  them  again." 

"Did  you  notice  that  heavy-set  one  was  minus  one 
finger,"  asked  Mike. 

"I  did,"  he  said,  before  I  could  answer.  "That  is 
Charley  Plumber.  I  do  not  know  him  but  feel  cer- 
tain it  is  him.  The  other  I  think  is  his  pal,  Sesesh 
Jimmy.  Plumber  lost  that  finger  when  he  and 
Ridgly  shot  Pat  Ford  at  Oro  Fino.  Pat  died  game, 
you  know,  and  before  they  got  him,  he  killed  both 
their  horses,  put  a  bullet  in  Ridgly's  leg  and  ampu- 
tated one  of  Plumber's  fingers.  Since  that  fight 
Plumber  has  been  on  the  road,  first  with  one  pal  and 
then  with  another,  and  has  held  up  several  returning 
miners,  besides  robbing  the  Silver  City  stage  twice 
in  the  last  six  months.  They  are  probably  on  their 
way  to  San  Francisco  to  have  a  good  time  with  their 
money.  I  think  likely  they  have  followed  you  from 
the  Boise  Basin  and,  by  following  the  old  emigrant 
road  while  you  came  by  the  ferry,  they  reached 


JACK  HART'S  ENCOUNTER  WITH  ROAD  AGENTS  229 

Miller's  a  little  ahead  of  us.  By  taking  this  night 
ride,  we  will  steal  a  march  on  them.  If  we  can  keep 
ahead  we  are  all  right.  They  will  never  dare  to  at- 
tack us  unless  they  can  get  the  drop.  We  will  ride 
hard  until  we  cross  the  Blue  Mountains  and  then  it 
is  all  open  country  to  the  Columbia  River." 

We  reached  Moody's  about  ten  o'clock  and  found 
several  freighters  sitting  around  the  fire.  We  said 
nothing  about  our  suspicions  of  the  men  behind  us, 
for  we  knew  to  show  any  anxiety  about  bad  charac- 
ters would  make  it  appear  that  we  had  money  with 
us  and  one  never  knows  who  he  may  find  in  a  crowd 
nowadays. 

About  eleven  o'clock,  when  we  were  about  to  re- 
tire, I  went  out  to  the  stable  to  see  that  our  horses 
were  well  cared  for.  Just  as  I  had  reached  the 
stable,  I  saw  two  horsemen  approaching.  I  stepped 
inside  and  watched  their  movements.  As  they  came 
nearer,  I  knew  the  horses — a  bay  and  a  gray — 
Plumber  and  Jimmy  without  a  doubt.  They  turned 
from  the  road  and  came  on  to  the  stable.  Plumber 
dismounted  and  came  up  until  he  could  see  our 
horses  through  the  cracks  of  the  stable,  for  it  was 
only  a  shack  of  a  thing  made  of  willow  poles;  then 
they  rode  on,  passed  the  house  and  in  a  moment 
were  out  of  sight. 

I  got  Mike  out  and  told  him  what  I  had  seen.    If 


230  STORIES  OP  OLD  OREGON 

we  had  any  doubts  about  the  designs  of  the  men  be- 
fore, we  had  none  now.  They  had  made  this  night 
ride  and  quietly  passed  our  stopping  place  in  order 
to  get  ahead  of  us  to  await  our  coming  in  some  spot 
favorable  to  their  designs. 

In  five  minutes  our  horses  were  saddled  and  again 
we  took  the  road,  determined  to  overtake  and  keep 
the  men  in  sight  during  the  night  and  to  allow  them 
no  opportunity  to  secrete  themselves  beside  the  road. 
When  we  came  in  sight  of  them,  they  appeared  quite 
unconcerned  about  our  appearance  and  did  not 
slacken  nor  increase  their  speed.  We  kept  about 
two  hundred  yards  behind,  only  shortening  that  dis- 
tance when  turning  a  point  in  the  hills  or  passing 
through  a  strip  of  brush  which  might  give  them  an 
opportunity  to  dismount  and  conceal  themselves. 
Throughout  the  night  we  rode  in  this  manner  and 
did  not  feel  alarmed;  it  was  rather  amusing  than 
otherwise. 

I  am  a  fair  shot  and  knew  Mike  to  be  a  brave  man, 
so  I  counted  on  his  doing  his  part  all  right  if  the 
men  we  were  following  should  try  to  take  our  dust. 
A  little  after  daylight,  we  came  to  a  ranch  and  saw 
our  men  dismount  at  the  door.  We  passed  on  to  the 
next  place,  only  a  couple  of  miles  farther,  where  we 
fed  our  tired  horses  and  had  our  breakfast.  Before 


JACK  HART'S  ENCOUNTER  WITH  ROAD  AGENTS   231 

we  were  ready  to  start  the  bay  and  grey  passed  and 
the  robbers  were  ahead  again. 

After  a  day  and  night's  ride  without  rest  we  did 
not  feel  like  taking  the  saddle,  neither  were  our 
horses  in  condition  to  travel,  but  after  giving  them 
a  couple  of  hours'  rest  we  set  out  again,  feeling 
rather  sore  and  neither  of  us  in  the  best  of  humor. 
We  had  talked  the  matter  over  and  concluded  that 
Plumber  and  Sesesh  intended  to  lay  for  us  in  the 
Blue  Mountains,  where  the  heavy  timber  through 
which  the  road  passes  would  give  them  a  good  op- 
portunity to  take  us  by  surprise.  It  was  no  use  to 
try  to  outride  them,  for  it  was  plain  they  were  better 
mounted  than  we  were,  so  the  plan  we  agreed  on 
was  to  follow  them  to  La  Grande.  If  they  took  the 
Meacham  road  over  the  mountains  we  would  cross 
the  valley  to  Summerville  and  go  over  b'y  that  road. 

We  made  a  short  ride  that  day  and  the  next  eve- 
ning came  to  La  Grande  about  9  o'clock.  We  skirted 
around  the  town,  and,  leaving  our  horses  at  a  farm 
house,  went  up  to  reconnoiter.  We  found  the  rob- 
ber's horses  at  the  livery  stable  but  did  not  see  the 
men.  The  stableman  told  us  they  were  at  the  hotel 
and  had  said  they  would  start  across  the  mountains 
the  next  morning  at  daylight.  Now,  if  we  should  go 
down  to  the  Summerville  road  it  would  add  twenty- 
five  miles  to  our  journey,  and  we  concluded  to  steal 


232          STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

a  march  on  the  highwaymen  and  cross  the  Blue 
Mountains  that  night  while  they  were  asleep  or  at 
any  rate  we  would  ride  to  Meacham  Station,  about 
twnty-five  miles  from  La  Grande.  This  would  give 
us  such  a  start  that  we  could  easily,  even  on  our 
worn  out  horses,  reach  the  open  country  on  the 
Umatilla  River  before  we  were  overtaken.  Once 
out  of  the  timber,  we  would  feel  secure,  for,  as  I 
have  said,  we  did  not  anticipate  an  attack  on  open 
ground.  Accordingly,  after  our  horses  were  fed 
and  we  had  taken  our  supper  at  a  little  restaurant, 
near  the  stable,  we  quietly  started  up  the  mountain, 
feeling  that  by  this  maneuver  we  had  placed  our- 
selves beyond  the  danger  of  losing  our  money  bags, 
if  not  our  lives. 

The  night  was  not  dark,  although  the  moon  was 
not  yet  up,  and  the  road  was  good,  so  we  made  fair 
progress  and  chatted  about  our  past  successes  and 
future  prospects.  We  had  no  fear  of  an  ambush 
ahead,  or  there  was  no  telltale  wires  strung  along 
that  road  and  no  one  ahead  of  us  could  know  we 
were  coming.  For  some  time  I  felt  as  secure  as  did 
Mike,  but  at  last  an  impression  grew  upon  me.  I 
say  it  grew,  for  it  seemed  to  come  slowly  and  gather 
strength  each  time  it  forced  itself  upon  my  atten- 
tion, until  it  stood  up  against  my  feeling  of  security 
and  boldly  whispered,  "Never  relax  your  vigilance 


JACK  HART'S  ENCOUNTER  WITH  ROAD  AGENTS  233 

for  you  are  being  pursued.  Plumber  and  Sesesh 
Jimmy  are  again  on  your  trail."  This  seemed  absurd 
at  the  time  and  I  tried  to  banish  the  thought,  only 
to  strengthen  it  at  every  trial.  I  argued,  condemned 
and  ridiculed  the  idea'  which  was  slowly  taking  pos- 
session of  me  to  no  purpose.  "It  would  not  down." 

At  last,  to  dispel  what  appeared  such  foolish 
fancies,  I  made  an  excuse  of  filling  my  pipe  and 
dropped  behind.  Dismounting,  I  laid  my  ear  to  the 
ground  and  listened.  I  could  hear  nothing  but  the 
plodding  thud  of  the  hoofs  of  Mike's  horse  as  he 
trotted  on.  No  one  else  was  in  hearing  distance,  that 
was  sure.  This  should  have  satisfied  me,  surely,  but 
it  did  not.  In  spite  of  all  available  evidence  I  be- 
came more  watchful  than  ever.  I  wondered  if  I 
was  a  coward  after  all  I  had  gone  through  and  tried 
to  be  cheerful  and  to  chat  with  Mike.  But  after  we 
had  gone  a  couple  of  miles,  I  found  myself  making 
an  excuse  to  drop  behind  again,  laid  my  ear  to  the 
ground  and  listened.  This  time  I  plainly  heard  the 
beat  of  horses'  hoofs  on  the  hard  road  behind  us. 
Whoever  it  was,  was  coming  in  at  a  gallop.  I  hurried 
on  and  told  Mike  what  I  had  heard.  We  both  lis- 
tened again  and  agreed  that  some  one  was  coming, 
and  at  a  furious  gait  at  that. 

"Who  can  it  be,  riding  that  way  at  this  time  ot 
nignt?"  said  Mike. 

"Our  highwaymen,  as  sure  as  you're  born,"  I  an- 


234          STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

swered.  "They  have  found  out  that  we  passed 
through  La  Grande  and  have  followed,  determined 
we  should  not  escape." 

"It  looks  that  way,"  Mike  answered.  "I  believe 
you  are  right.  Our  horses  are  too  near  done  up  for 
us  to  run.  We  may  as  well  get  ready  to  fight.  We 
have  got  to  help  make  a  little  history  whether  we 
want  to  or  not." 

We  recapped  our  pistols  and  rode  slowly  on.  The 
clatter  of  the  horses'  hoofs  on  the  road  was  now 
quite  distinct,  and,  without  a  word,  as  by  common 
impulse,  we  halted  just  as  we  were  entering  a  grove 
of  timber.  We  were  in  the  shade  but  could  plainly 
see  the  road  for  several  hundred  yards  behind  us. 
The  moon  had  risen  and  was  shining  brightly ;  every 
bush  or  stone  stood  out  almost  as  plainly  as  in  the 
daylight. 

"Yonder  they  come,"  said  Mike,  "the  bay  and  grey 
as  sure  as  fate.  Plumber's  on  the  grey ;  I  want  him. 
You  take  the  other;  aim  low  and  don't  miss  the  first 
shot.  Let  'em  come  up  close.  Now  good  work." 

We  did  not  dismount.  All  plainsmen  shoot  from 
the  saddle  by  choice.  Our  horses  were  not  afraid 
of  firearms  and  were  too  wearied  to  be  nervous 
at  the  approach  of  the  robbers. 

Across  the  belt  of  moonlight  they  galloped,  hold- 
ing a  tight  rein,  and  I  could  distinctly  see  each  held 


JACK  HART'S  ENCOUNTER  WITH  ROAD  AGENTS  235 

a  pistol  in  his  right  hand.  When  they  were  within 
twenty  steps  of  us  I  cried,  "Halt."  As  we  were  in 
the  shadow,  they  had  not  seen  us  and  we  had,  as  we 
had  planned  to  have,  decidedly  the  advantage.  With 
a  jerk  the  reins  tightened  and  the  horses  were 
brought  to  a  sudden  halt.  I  saw  Mike  slowly  and 
very  deliberately  raise  his  pistol,  indeed,  all  four 
were  half  to  a  level,  when  with  the  suddenness  of  a 
flash  of  lightning  a  thought  arrested  my  hand.  Why 
such  a  thought  should  have  come  at  such  a  moment, 
I  can  never  tell,  but  I  cried,  "Hold,  don't  shoot,"  to 
Mike,  who  was  already  glancing  along  the  barrel  of 
his  pistol 

"What  now?"  he  hissed  through  his  teeth,  still 
keeping  his  aim  upon  Plumber. 

Then  a  moment  ot  dreadful  suspense  ensued.  How 
long  I  cannot  say.  It  seemed  a  long  time.  I  was 
trying  to  formulate  the  thoughts  which  assailed  me 
so  rapidly  into  words.  At  last,  feeling  that  I  was 
doing  a  foolish  thing,  I  said:  "Don't  shoot  until  I 
have  spoken.  It  is  possible  there  may  be  some  mis- 
take. What  do  you  want?" 

From  Plumber  came  the  answer,  clear  and  dis- 
tinct, "Why  did  you  stop  us?" 

"Because  you  are  following  us;  have  dogged  us 
from  Burnt  River,"  I  said.  "Are  you  not  Charley 
Plumber  and  Sesesh  Jimmy?" 

"My  God,  no;  we  are  Mose  Splawn  and  Joe  Reed. 


236          STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

We  only  want  to  pass  you  to  go  on,  as  our  horses 
are  better  than  yours." 

"That's  it,"  yelled  Mike;  "you  can't  play  any  such 
game  on  us.  I  know  you  both,  you  cutthroats.  Now 
take  the  back  track  if  you  want  to  save  your  necks 
for  the  gallows,  and  be  in  a  hurry  about  it,  too." 

"Wait  a  moment,  Mike,"  I  said;  and  then  to 
Plumber :  "Why  did  you  leave  La  Grande  after  you 
had  stopped  for  the  night?" 

"Because  the  town  was  full  of  toughs  and  we 
wanted  to  overtake  you  so  that  you  could  get  no 
advantage  of  us." 

For  an  instant  I  thought  the  man  might  be  telling 
the  truth.  Then  caution  said  be  careful,  your  life 
is  at  stake.  But  what  was  to  be  done?  We  dare 
not  let  them  pass,  and  it  was  equally  dangerous  to 
ride  on  with  these  men  so  close  behind  us.  I  was 
never  in  such  a  close  place  in  my  life,  and  I  have 
been  in  some  pretty  tight  ones,  I  tell  you.  Mike 
wanted  to  fight  and  it  was  with  difficulty  that  I  kept 
him  from  firing.  For  a  time  there  was  silence,  not 
a  word  was  spoken  until  it  seemed  that  nothing  but 
the  crack  of  pistols  could  break  the  suspense.  I 
have  thought  since  what  a  picture  we  would  have 
made.  The  mountain  top,  the  open  glade,  the  dark 
grove  of  fir,  the  four  steeds,  two  of  them  in  the 
moonlight  and  two  in  the  shadow  standing,  breath- 


JACK  HART'S  ENCOUNTER  WITH  ROAD  AGENTS  237 

ing  hard,  with  heads  bent  low  and  all  unconscious 
of  the  dreadful  predicament  of  their  riders.  I  was 
thinking  very  hard,  and  at  last  called  out:  "I  be- 
lieve you  are  wretches  who  should  be  shot  down  like 
dogs,  but  it  is  possible  there  may  be  a  mistake  here, 
and  I  will  make  you  a  proposition.  I  am  willing  to 
take  my  chances  and  ride  by  the  side  of  one  of  you 
to  the  Station.  What  do  you  say?" 

Sesesh  Jimmy  spoke  first  and  said:  "That's  fair; 
I'm  your  man." 

Plumber  agreed,  and  Mike  by  silence  consented, 
but  kept  his  pistol  half  raised.  I  whispered  to  him 
to  take  the  left  side  of  the  road  and  told  Sesesh  to 
ride  forward  and  I  would  meet  him.  He  came  up 
boldly,  and  side  by  side  we  took  the  road.  Mike  and 
Plumber  fell  into  line  and  each  man's  right  fore- 
finger pressing  a  trigger,  we  rode  into  the  dark 
grove.  When  we  came  out  into  the  moonlight  again, 
I  could  see  I  had  no  slouch  to  deal  with.  He  kept 
his  horse  well  in  hand  and  the  firm  poise  of  his  body 
and  half  bent  pistol  arm  showed  plainly  he  was  not 
to  be  caught  napping.  As  for  myself,  I  fully  realized 
my  situation.  I  knew  a  man  of  cool,  determined 
pluck  was  riding  by  my  side  and  every  atom  of 
nerve  about  me  was  roused  to  meet  it.  We  talked 
but  little.  In  some  places  there  were  mud  holes  in 
the  road  and  this  caused  our  horses  to  swerve  apart 


238          STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

or  to  jostle  together.  At  such  times  each  kept  a 
close  watch  that  the  other  got  no  advantage.  Being 
on  the  left  side,  I  could  have  raised  my  arm  to  fire 
quicker  than  Sesesh  could,  who  would  have  to  turn 
partly  around  before  he  could  bring  his  gun  to  bear 
upon  me.  Thus  we  rode  about  five  miles,  when  we 
came  in  sight  of  the  station.  I  had  made  up  my 
mind  that  when  we  reached  it,  the  robbers  would 
expect  to  find  us  off  our  ground  and  would  leave  us 
and  run.  So  I  was  especially  alert  as  we  neared  the 
huge  lamp  in  front  of  the  house,  determined  they 
should  not  escape.  To  my  surprise  both  rode  boldly 
up  to  the  light  and  dismounted.  The  proprietor, 
Meacham,  came  out  and  in  his  cordial  way  greeted 
all  four  of  us,  "Hello,  Ward.  How  are  you,  Hart? 
Well,  I  declare,  Splawn  and  Reed;  all  old  friends; 
how  are  you  ?  Go  right  in  to  the  fire  and  I  will  take 
care  of  your  horses." 

I  was  surprised  and  yet  for  several  moments  I 
had  been  half  suspecting  such  a  denouement.  So 
there  were  no  highwaymen  to  shoot  at  after  all.  For 
a  moment  each  man  looked  his  pardner  full  in  the 
face,  a  broad  grin  overspread  my  robber's  features, 
and  I  gave  a  little  laugh  which  Meacham  did  not 
notice.  As  we  entered  the  well  lighted  hall,  Splawn, 
for  he  was  our  Plumber,  caught  Mike  and  I  each  by 


JACK  HART'S  ENCOUNTER  WITH  ROAD  AGENTS  239 

the  shoulder  and  whispered,  "This  is  too  good ;  let's 
never  tell." 

"Agreed,"  we  answered  in  a  breath. 

After  a  good,  warm  supper  we  spun  a  few  yarns 
and  then  all  went  upstairs,  where  we  found  two  com- 
modious beds  in  the  same  room.  Here,  when  alone, 
we  had  a  talk  and  compared  notes  a  little.  Each 
party  had  been  suspicious  of  the  other  from  first 
sight  and  all  were  afraid  of  being  robbed  and  had 
maneuvered  to  be  safe.  Now  that  real  names  were 
known,  we  knew  each  other  by  reputation,  although 
it  had  happened  we  had  never  met  before.  Splawn, 
a  real  jolly,  good-natured,  honest-looking  fellow  now 
that  our  fear  was  gone,  roared  out  with  laughter : 

"What  made  you  fellows  afraid  of  us?"  he  asked. 
"We  are  as  timid  a  pair  as  ever  came  over  this  road 
with  a  sack  of  gold  dust,  I  can  tell  you.  I  was  shak- 
ing so  in  my  boots  when  you  called  me  alongside  of 
you  that  I  was  actually  afraid  I  would  fall  off  my 
horse  and  that  you  would  take  that  for  a  hostile 
movement  and  shoot  me." 

"You  had  your  pistol  ready  cocked  for  me,"  I  said. 

"Cocked !  I  should  say  it  was  cocked.  I  have  had 
it  cocked  ever  since  I  saw  you  on  Burnt  River,"  he 
answered,  roaring  again.  "Now  tell  me  why  you 


240          STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

took  us  for  those  cutthroats.  Do  we  look  like  such 
people?" 

"Not  now,"  I  said,  laughing  with  the  rest,  "but 
to  make  a  clean  breast  of  it,  Mike  and  I  got  scared 
first  at  your  horses;  they  were  as  rakish  looking 
steeds  as  I  ever  saw;  then  your  saddles  and  bridles 
were  too  elegant  and  too  new  to  look  honest.  We 
were  prejudiced  against  them  when  we  went  into 
the  Adobe  House  to  find  the  highwaymen,  and  I 
thought  you  two  were  the  most  villainous  looking 
rascals  I  had  ever  set  eyes  upon." 

"That's  just  what  we  thought  of  you,"  Splawn 
laughed  again.  "I  would  have  bet  my  last  dollar 
you  were  planning  to  murder  us  while  you  were 
eating  your  supper.  I  could  see  villainy  in  every 
motion  you  made.  Moreover,  we  both  had  a  kind 
of  a  presentiment  that  you  were  after  us  and  I  fully 
expected  you  to  run  for  your  lives  when  we  reached 
the  station.  We  thought  you  were  Wild  Bill  and 
that  Mr.  Ward  was  Six-told  Pete.  In  fact,  we  men- 
tioned our  suspicions  to  several  men  along  the  route 
who  had  seen  you  pass,  and  they  all  agreed  with  us. 
I  believe  we  could  have  had  you  both  hanged  on  sus- 
picion and  circumstantial  evidence  when  you 
sneaked  around  La  Grande  and  took  to  the  moun- 
tains in  the  night  with  your  jaded  horses.  The 
whole  thing  is  good  enough  for  a  story,  but  we  had 


JACK  HART'S  ENCOUNTER  WITH  ROAD  AGENTS  241 

better  keep  it  to  ourselves  unless  we  want  to  be 
laughed  out  of  the  country.  There  will  never  be 
another  such  ride,  I  reckon." 

With  our  money  in  our  cantenas  on  the  floor  by 
our  bedsides  and  our  pistols  with  hammers  down, 
we  all  slept  so  soundly  that  Meacham  had  to  come 
to  the  head  of  the  stairs  and  call  us  the  second 
time  to  breakfast. 


ONE  OF  THE  COLUMBIA  RIVER  FALLS 


Was  It  Luck  or  Providence? 


XII. 


Developments  throughout  Eastern  Oregon  were 
taking  place  very  rapidly.  The  Oregon  Steam  Navi- 
gation Company  had  a  line  of  steamers  on  the  Co- 
lumbia, running  to  the  Umatilla  and  Wallulu. 
Lighter  vessels  were  also  running  on  the  Upper  Co- 
lumbia and  Snake  Rivers.  The  whole  country  was 
settling  up  with  hardy  farmers  and  stockmen. 
Towns,  villages,  and  cities  were  springing  up  as 
if  by  magic,  and  the  Great  Inland  Empire,  once  Old 
Oregon,  was  being  divided  and  subdivided  into  many 
territories. 

She  was  coming  to  her  own,  but  as  yet  had  no  rail- 
roads, and  all  supplies  were  hauled  by  teams  or 
packed  on  trains  from  the  Columbia  as  far  east  in 
some  instances  as  Virginia  City,  a  thousand  miles 
inland.  On  every  trail  or  road  were  long  caravans 
of  teams  and  trains  of  pack  animals;  everybody 
seemed  to  be  moving.  On  every  stream,  and  by 


244          STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

every  spring  campfires  blazed  at  night.     It  looked 
as  if  all  the  West  were  camping  out. 

The  campfire  was  the  forum  around  which  all  ad- 
ventures were  related  and  all  questions  discussed. 
We  had  no  papers,  no  magazines,  no  books,  no  mail ; 
one  might  suppose  stagnation  would  ensue;  but  it 
was  not  so.  Every  conceivable  question  was 
broached,  and  argued  with  energy  around  the  camp- 
fire  at  night.  As  one  might  suppose,  great  talkers 
were  developed,  and  many  latent  talents  brought 
out.  Here  is  an  illustration  of  an  evening's  enter- 
tainment. The  question  seemed  to  be,  "Was  It  Luck 
or  Providence?" 

"There  is  no  such  thing  as  luck,"  said  the  young 
schoolmaster.  "Nothing  happens.  Everything 
which  occurs  is  the  direct  result  of  causes  sufficient 
to  produce  that  result.  No  one  believes  in  luck  but 
the  most  ignorant  people;  and  I  cannot  understand 
why  anyone  should  believe  such  stuff.  There  is 
nothing  to  support  the  idea  whatever." 

It  was  a  cold  evening  in  December,  of  1862.  We 
were  sitting  before  a  fire  of  blazing  pine  logs  on  the 
south  side  of  the  Spokane  River,  Washington  state, 
near  the  site  now  occupied  by  the  city  of  Spokane. 
We  were  en  route  from  Pen  D'Orille  Lake,  traveling 
with  a  four-mule  team  to  Walla  Walla,  Washington. 
Two  brothers,  John  and  Robert  Shaw,  Arthur  Grey 


WAS  IT  LUCK  OR  PROVIDENCE  245 

and  myself  composed  our  company.  The  schoolmas- 
ter had  been  teaching  at  Fort  Colville  and  was  re- 
turning to  his  home  at  The  Dalles.  The  brothers  had 
been  for  several  years  trapping  for  the  Hudson  Bay 
Company  and,  becoming  tired  of  that  pursuit,  were 
seeking  other  scenes.  They  were  good,  manly,  hon- 
est fellows,  but  extremely  illiterate,  which  fact  an- 
noyed Mr.  Grey  not  a  little.  John,  who  was  the  most 
talkative  of  the  two,  was  continually  being  corrected 
in  his  ideas  and  speech.  In  fact,  Mr.  Grey  was  one 
of  those  teachers  who  never  dismiss  school,  but  feel 
it  their  duty  to  correct  error  wherever  they  find  it. 
There  was  constant  friction  between  these  two. 

The  remark  with  which  this  sketch  opens  was 
called  forth  by  John,  who  persisted  in  speaking  of 
luck,  both  good  and  bad.  His  eyes  opened  wide  when 
his  pet  notions  about  luck  were  thus  unceremoni- 
ously attacked. 

"Don't  you  think  anything  ever  happens  that 
wouldn't  happened  if  every  thing  had  gone  on  smooth 
and  regular?"  he  asked  at  the  conclusion  of  the 
schoolmaster's  remarks. 

"I  can't  say  as  to  that,"  answered  Mr.  Grey,  smil- 
ing, "but  I  adhere  to  my  original  statement.  There 
is  no  such  thing  as  luck  and  I  assure  you,  if  you  had 
enjoyed  any  educational  advantages,  you  would 
agree  with  me.  I  know  you  are  honest  in  your  con- 


246          STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

victions,  and  I  would  gladly  instruct  you  about  such 
things,  but  your  mental  vision  is  so  extremely  limited 
I  find  it  difficult  to  make  you  comprehend  what  I 
say." 

"Jist  so,"  said  John;  "I  can't  argue  with  you  for 
you've  got  all  the  biggest  words  and  I  know  it.  But 
I'm  going  to  tell  you  about  a  streak  of  luck  me  an' 
Bob  got  into  and  I'll  bet  you'll  give  in  when  you 
hear  it. 

"Well,  as  I  told  you,  we  have  been  trappin'  and 
freightin'  for  the  Hudson  Bay  Company  up  in  Brit- 
ish Columbia.  Trappin'  is  done  mostly  in  the  win- 
ter; so  is  freightin'.  They  use  dogs  for  horses  and 
the  rivers  an'  lakes  for  roads.  A  good  pullin'  dog 
is  worth  ten  dollars  an'  a  well  broke  greyhound  is 
worth  a  hundred.  They  run  the  greyhounds  on  the 
express. 

"We  was  up  on  the  lakes,  about  four  hundred  miles 
above  Fort  Colville.  We  had  bad  luck  all  the  time 
and  never  made  anything.  We  took  a  notion  to  quit 
and  started  down  afoot,  packin'  our  blankets  and 
camp  things  on  our  backs.  We  made  it  all  right  till 
we  got  in  about  thirty  miles  of  the  company's  sta- 
tion. 

"One  evening  we  struck  a  parara  and  it  com- 
menced to  snow.  We  couldn't  see  where  we  wus 
goin'  no  more  than  nothin'.  Maybe  we  went  around 


WAS  IT  LUCK  OR  PROVIDENCE  247 

and  maybe  we  went  straight  ahead.  Jist  about  dark 
we  cum  to  a  little  grove  of  pine  trees.  Right  in  the 
edge  of  it  there  was  an  old  cabin.  We  went  in  and 
got  out  of  the  storm.  There  was  a  fireplace  and 
plenty  of  wood  layin'  around.  We  struck  a  fire  and 
felt  purty  good,  but  the  chimney  smoked  so  it  drove 
us  out  doors.  Bob  looked  up  and  said,  "Thar's  some 
boards  layin'  across  the  top  of  the  chimney.'  He 
climbed  up  to  take  them  down.  Jist  as  he  throwed 
the  boards  off,  his  holt  broke  an'  he  fell.  I  run  out 
an'  thar  he  was,  holdin'  his  leg  with  both  hands.  He 
fell  in  a  hole  where  they  tuck  the  mud  out  to  build 
the  chimney  and  broke  his  leg.  It  would  jist  swing 
around  sideways.  I  never  was  so  bad  skeered  in 
my  life;  but  I  helped  Bob  in  and  he  laid  down  on 
the  blankets.  I  didn't  stay  skeered  long.  I  knowed 
1  would  have  to  fix  that  leg  somehow.  I'd  seen  sich 
things  done,  and  went  at  it.  I  made  a  lot  of  splints 
and  got  it  all  straight  and  tied  it  up  with  some 
strings  we  found  in  the  cabin.  Then  we  commenced 
to  think  about  our  cussed  luck.  There  was  no  doctor 
anywhere  in  reach.  Bob  couldn't  walk;  he  was  too 
big  for  me  to  pack  on  my  back,  and  we  were  nearly 
out  of  grub  and  it  was  snowing  terrible.  I  wish  you 
had  been  there  to  argue  the  case  then.  How  would 
your  cause  come  in  then?  Why,  Bob  didn't  fall  ten 


248          STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

feet.  I  seed  a  man  once  fall  fifty  and  it  didn't  hurt 
him  a  bit. 

"We  jist  had  one  little  streak  of  good  luck — we 
was  in  a  cabin  where  I  could  keep  Bob  from  freezing 
to  death.  It  kept  on  snowing  an'  next  mornin'  it 
was  knee  deep  and  snowin'  still.  I  told  Bob  we  must 
hold  out  till  it  quit,  then  I  would  go  for  help.  So 
we  eat  light  that  day. 

"I  had  my  old  Yager,  but  there  was  no  game  in 
that  country  then.  Bob  had  been  at  me  all  the  way 
to  throw  it  away,  but  I  held  on  to  it.  I  got  in  a 
good  lot  of  wood  and  kept  the  cabin  warm.  Long 
towards  mornin'  I  though  I  heard  something  tramp- 
in'  around  the  house  like  horses  or  cattle,  but  I 
knowed  thar  want  any  such  stock  around.  Jist  as 
it  was  gittin'  light,  I  heard  a  kind  of  snort  and 
knowed  thar  was  sunthin'  out  thar.  I  peeped  out  of 
a  crack  and  thar  stood  a  big  buffalo  not  ten  feet 
from  the  cabin. 

"My  heart  cum  right  up  in  my  mouth  an'  nearly 
choked  me;  but  I  poked  the  old  Yager  out  and  let 
him  have  an  ounce  bullet  right  in  the  ear.  He  didn't 
know  what  hurt  him.  He  went  down  kerwhollop. 

"Bob  yelled  out,  "What  in  the  nation  ar'  you 
shootin'  at?' 

"  'I've  killed  a  big  buffalo.' 

"  'Not  much/  said  Bob,  'thar  ain't  a  buffalo  in 


WAS  IT  LUCK  OR  PROVIDENCE  249 

two  hundred  mile  of  here.  You  must  a  killed  sum- 
thin',  though,  for  I  hear  it  kickinY 

"  'By  the  Moses,  Bob,  I  tell  you  I've  got  the  biggest 
buffalo  you  ever  saw.  He's  right  here  against  the 
house  as  dead  as  a  door  nail.  We  can  live  on  him 
till  you  git  well.' 

"  'What's  that?'  said  Bob,  lookin'  toward  the  other 
side  o'  the  cabin. 

"I  crawled  over  an'  peeped  out  that  side,  thinkin' 
it  might  be  another  one.  I  cum  near  a  jumin'  out  of 
my  boots.  I  would  a  done  it  only  I  didn't  have  them 
on.  The  whole  grove  was  full  uv  'em.  They  wus 
a  standin'  around  under  the  trees  to  keep  out  of  the 
snow.  I  never  saw  it  snow  harder.  I  loaded  up  the 
old  gun  and  downed  another  big  bull.  The  gun  didn't 
make  much  noise.  They  don't,  you  know,  when 
thar's  snow  on  the  trees.  It  never  scared  'em  a 
bit.  I  kept  on  loadin'  and  shootin'  and  seein'  more 
buffalo  all  the  time.  Bob  was  so  excited  I  could 
hardly  make  him  lay  still  and  not  hurt  his  leg.  He 
twisted  around  so  he  could  see  out  and  I  had  to  give 
him  the  gun  an'  let  him  shoot  one.  He  done  it  in 
good  shape.  I  kept  on  shootin'  all  morning.  When 
thar  wasn't  any  more  in  sight  I  crept  out  to  see  what 
I  had  done.  They  wus  layin'  everywhere.  Thar  wus 
three  standing  out  in  the  edge  of  the  grove.  I 
crawled  out  an'  got  one  of  'em ;  the  other  two  run  off 


250          STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

on  the  parara.  They  cum  back  after  while  and  I 
got  'em  both.  What  made  them  act  that  way  nobody 
can  tell.  When  I  had  counted  'em,  I  had  twenty- 
eight  as  purty  beeves  as  you  ever  saw.  All  seal  fat. 
The  fust  thing  I  done  was  to  skin  out  a  piece  of  the 
one  by  the  house  for  breakfast.  Bob  was  nearly 
tickled  to  death.  He  laughed  at  everything  I  said. 
Bob's  got  a  long  head  on  him.  While  I  was  shootin' 
he  had  been  a  studyin'  up  what  we  wus  goin'  to  do 
with  all  that  meat.  I  was  just  poppin'  away  without 
thinkin'  o'  anything.  I  jist  killed  them  cause  I  seed 
them,  like  a  weasel  in  a  hencoop.  But  Bob's  idea  was 
to  sell  'em  to  the  Company.  I  forgot  to  tell  you  that 
the  Company  was  short  of  pimecan.  That's  part 
of  the  reason  we  quit  'em.  They  said  they  couldn't 
let  us  have  it  but  twice  a  day. 

"Every  trapper  knows  it  gits  too  cold  up  thar  too 
work  on  anything  else,  so  a  lot  of  us  pulled  out  for 
a  warmer  country.  Thar  was  plenty  of  it  stacked 
up  in  the  buffalo  country,  but  the  lakes  an'  rivers 
hadn't  froze  over  so  they  could  get  it  in  yet. 

"What's  that  you  say?  You  don't  know  what 
pimecan  is?  Well,  that  beats  me.  I  never  heard  of 
the  like  o'  that.  What  would  you  say  if  I  didn't  know 
what  bread  and  meat  wus?  Don't  know  what  pim- 
ecan is!  Never  heard  of  it  afore!  Well,  that  does 
me  up.  Bob,  don't  that  beat  anything  you  ever 


WAS  IT  LUCK  OR  PROVIDENCE  251 

heard  of?  The  schoolmaster  don't  know  what  pim- 
ecan  is.  Well,  I'll  be  dogoned!  Say,  did  you  ever 
hear  of  the  Hudson  Bay  Company  afore?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  answered  the  schoolmaster,  feeling  he 
was  now  being  placed  on  solid  ground,  "the  Hudson 
Bay  Company  is  the  largest  fur  company  in  North 
America.  It  has  several  thousand  trading  posts  and 
employs  several  thousand  men,  besides  purchasing 
all  the  furs  taken  by  the  Indians." 

"You  bet  they  do.  It  is  the  biggest  company  in 
the  world.  It  has  eat  up  all  the  buffalo  in  the 
United  States.  Every  bit  of  it  was  made  up  into 
pimecan  afore  they  touched  it.  An'  you  never  heard 
of  it  afore!  Why,  man,  that  is  the  only  thing  they 
can  eat  down  there  and  keep  warm.  Up  thar  on 
the  lakes  it  is  about  the  only  thing  they  think  about 
when  the  thermometer  gets  down  a  couple  of  hun- 
dred below  freezin'.  When  they  git  out  of  pimecan 
nobody  dasen't  leave  the  fire.  Why,  the  dogs  know 
what  pimecan  is  and  won't  stretch  a  trace  unless 
they  git  plenty  of  it.  If  a  dog  starts  out  on  them 
lakes  in  the  winter,  without  his  belly  full  of  pimecan, 
he  is  a  dead  dog  sure.  And  you  never  heard  of  it! 
Well,  I'm  clean  done  up!  With  all  your  education 
you  didn't  know  what  pimecan  was!  But  I'm  glad 
there's  something  you  didn't  know.  I  thought  you 
knowed  most  everything.  It  makes  me  feel  like  I 


252          STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

wouldn't  be  so  uncomfortable  any  more  when  you  are 
talking.  But  maybe  I  am  wearin'  you  out  like  you 
do  me  sometimes.  If  that  is  so  I'll  jist  quit  now.  I 
ain't  got  nothin'  agin  you.  I  really  wish  me  and  Bob 
knowed  as  much  as  you  do.  But  I  don't  see  how 
you  could  have  got  along  without  findin'  out  some- 
thin'  about  pimecan.  Are  you  tired?  If  you  are, 
say  so." 

"No,"  answered  the  very  much  worried  but  good- 
natured  schoolmaster,  "go  on.  I  assure  you  I  am 
very  much  interested  in  what  you  are  relating. 
Please  go  on  with  your  story." 

"That's  good.  Now  I'm  all  right.  I'll  tell  you  all 
about  it  and  tell  it  as  quick  as  I  can ;  but  it  stretches 
over  a  good  deal  of  ground.  Maybe  you  would  like 
to  know  jist  how  to  make  it.  Well,  the  furst  thing 
is  to  skin  the  buffalo;  then  cut  the  skin  up  and 
make  little  sacks  jist  big  enough  to  hold  fifty  pounds 
of  the  meat;  sew  'em  up  with  strings  of  the  hide, 
and  fill  'em  with  meat.  Ater  it  is  cooked  a  little, 
then  pour  two  gallons  of  hot  taller  in  each  sack,  sew 
it  up  and  your  pimecan  is  done.  The  taller  makes  it 
all  solid  and  it  will  keep  fresh  all  winter.  There 
were  some  old  traps  in  the  cabin,  an'  among  'em  I 
found  a  big  camp  kettle.  That  was  jist  right  to  cook 
our  meat  in.  Then  I  went  to  work  on  my  buffalo. 
I  worked  all  day  and  night  to  get  as  many  of  'em 


WAS  IT  LUCK  OR  PROVIDENCE  253 

cut  up  afore  they  froze  as  I  could.  Bob  sewed  up 
sacks  and  kept  the  pot  a  bilin'.  I  tell  you  we  worked. 
Day  and  night  we  never  let  the  fire  go  out.  It  kept 
on  snowin'  and  got  colder  and  colder.  I  had  to  chop 
the  meat  with  a  hatchet.  We  kept  on  bilin'  and 
stackin'  up  the  sacks  until  we  had  the  cabin  nearly 
full.  We  worked  four  weeks  as  hard  as  ever  you 
see  men  work  an'  then  I  had  ten  buffalo  we  hadn't 
touched,  except  I  took  the  insides  out  the  furst  day. 
But  they  wus  all  right.  They  wus  froze  as  hard  as 
rocks.  Bob's  leg  was  gittin'  along  furst  rate.  We 
had  nothin'  to  eat  but  meat.  When  the  snow  got  a 
little  hard,  I  made  a  pair  of  snowshoes  and  started 
for  the  fort.  I  left  Bob  plenty  of  wood  and  meat  to 
work  on.  After  I  struck  the  lake  the  travelin'  was 
purty  good.  Thar  was  about  fifty  men  at  the  fort 
and  not  a  pound  of  pimecan  in  camp.  When  I  told 
my  story  they  jist  laughed  at  me.  One  feller  said, 
"What's  the  use  of  tellin'  such  stuff?  Thar  ain't  no 
buffalo  in  this  country.  You  are  just  a  blowhard." 

"Now  look  here,"  I  said,  "I  don't  like  that  and 
ain't  goin'  to  take  any  more  of  it.  I  ain't  no  liar  and 
won't  stand  any  more  foolishness.  I  don't  care 
whether  you  believe  me  or  not.  I've  got  the  stuff, 
6000  pounds  of  it,  all  stacked  up  in  the  cabin." 

"After  while  they  thought  may  be  I  wus  tellin' 
the  truth  and  wanted  to  talk  about  it.  One  feller,. 


254          STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

the  only  one  that  had  any  sense,  asked  me  if  I  found 
a  salt  mine  in  the  cabin,  too.  I  told  him  I  put  it  up 
without  salt  in  it.  Then  he  wanted  to  know  if  I 
had  any  of  it  with  me.  I  told  him  thar  was  some  in 
my  pack.  That  told  the  tale.  They  knowed  if  I  had 
bought  the  pimecan  it  would  be  salted. 

"The  next  mornin'  twenty  men  started  back  with 
me.  We  tuck  all  the  dogs  and  sledges  they  had. 
They  wus  the  best  tickled  set  of  fellows  you  ever 
saw  when  we  got  to  the  cabin  and  they  found  I 
wasn't  lyin'  about  the  pimecan.  I  sold  it  all  to  them, 
right  thar,  for  thirty  cents  a  pound.  As  soon  as  they 
were  gone  with  thar  load  I  commenced  on  the  frozen 
buffaloes.  They  hauled  and  me  and  Bob  biled  and 
stewed  until  thar  want  a  pound  of  good  meat  on 
the  bones. 

"When  we  got  done  we  tucked  Bob  in  one  of  the 
sledges  (I  had  saved  a  good  buffalo  robe  to  keep  him 
warm),  and  went  down  to  the  fort.  His  leg  was 
nearly  well. 

"We  bought  the  team  that  brought  Bob  down  for 
sixty-five  dollars  and  started  to  Fort  Colville.  We 
had  four  good  pullin'  dogs  and  come  most  of  the 
way  on  the  ice.  When  we  were  on  the  land  the  snow 
was  packed  hard.  We  had  lots  of  pervisons  and  felt 
purty  good. 

"It  takes  a  good  driver  to  run  a  dog,  you  bet.  Most 


WAS  IT  LUCK  OR  PROVIDENCE  255 

any  body  can  drive  a  mule,  but  a  man  has  got  to 
know  a  few  things  to  drive  dogs.  They  are  so  much 
smarter  than  a  mule.  If  they  ain't  managed  right, 
they  will  take  up  all  kinds  uv  tricks.  Most  of  their 
harness  is  made  of  raw  hide  an'  every  now  and  then 
a  dog  will  turn  thief  and  git  up  in  the  night,  when 
you  are  asleep,  and  eat  up  his  harness.  That's  lots 
wus  than  a  balky  mule,  I  tell  you.  After  you  feed 
your  dogs,  after  you  stop  at  night,  they  go  off  and 
dig  down  in  the  snow,  four  or  five  feet,  so  they  will 
be  warm.  If  it  snows  you  can't  see  whar  they  are, 
and  the  holes  is  all  covered  up.  A  good  do^  will  al- 
ways come  when  you  call  him  for  breakfast,  but  a 
rogue  will  sometimes  lay  still  and  let  you  whistle 
until  he  gits  too  hungry  to  stay  any  longer.  You've 
got  to  be  careful  not  to  feed  too  much  so  your  dogs 
will  be  hungry  in  the  mornin'.  You've  got  to  know 
jist  how  much  each  dog  needs.  The  first  night  Bob 
fed.  I  was  gettin'  supper  and  didn't  see  what  he 
give  'em.  Bob  never  druv  much  and  fed  'em  all 
they  wanted.  That  night  it  snowed.  In  the  mornin' 
when  we  called,  not  a  dog  showed  up.  Their  bellies 
wus  full  and  they  had  a  warm  nest.  They  jist  laid 
low.  Me  and  Bob  whistled  ourselves  nearly  to  death. 
No  use,  nary  dog  was  ready  to  be  hitched  up.  We 
had  to  stay  there  until  next  day.  We  wus  mad  as 
blazes.  I  tound  what  looked  like  a  dog's  nest  and 


256          STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

run  a  pole  down  in  the  snow.  He  came  out  a  yellin' 
but  I  couldn't  find  any  more.  Late  in  the  evenin' 
they  all  crawled  out  for  some  more  pimecan.  They 
didn't  get  much.  Next  mornin'  when  we  called  'em, 
they  wus  ready  for  their  breakfast,  I  tell  you.  After 
that  I  done  the  feedin'  and  we  got  on  all  right. 

"When  we  got  to  Colville  they  said  the  sleighin' 
wus  good,  so  we  drov  on  to  the  lake  whar  we  struck 
you  fellers.  I  held  on  to  my  old  Yager.  I  ain't  never 
going  to  let  that  go.  It  is  my  lucky  stick,  an'  I  think 
purty  near  as  much  of  it  as  I  do  of  Bob.  Now  what 
do  you  call  all  that  but  luck,  pure  luck?  Every  word 
I  told  you  is  true.  Thar  were  no  buffaloes  ever  seed 
thar  before  and  I  bet  thar  won't  ever  be  again.  It 
is  a  long  way  too  far  north  for  'em.  Then  who  ever 
heard  of  'em  actin'  that  way  ?  Why  didn't  they  run 
when  I  shot  the  fust  one?  Who  ever  heard  of  a 
band  of  'em  millin'  around  a  cabin  till  they  wus  all 
killed  afore?  How  do  you  suppose  I'd  got  along 
after  Bob  broke  his  leg  if  that  meat  hadn't  come 
along  or  bin  sent  jist  as  it  wus?  If  that  ain't  pure 
luck  I  don't  know  what  you'd  call  it.  It  want  no 
management  shore.  Me  and  Bob  didn't  think  about 
calkilatin'  on  such  a  thing.  I  wasn't  even  thinkin' 
about  buffalo  when  I  heard  'em  trampin'  around  the 
cabin.  And  packin'  that  old  gun  three  hundred 
miles,  it  ain't  worth  six  bits;  why  I  didn't  throw  it 


WAS  IT  LUCK  OR  PROVIDENCE  257 

away  when  Bob  wanted  me  to,  if  it  wasn't  to  be  used 
to  help  us  out  of  a  scrape.  Oh,  pshaw!  It  ain't  no 
use  to  talk  about  thar  bein'  no  luck  and  about  every- 
thing coming  round  regular  like.  It  is  agin  reason. 
If  everything  is  jist  pushed  along  by  some  other 
thing,  why  can't  you  tell  what's  goin'  to  happen? 
Thar  wouldn't  be  any  bettin'  if  a  feller  could  tell 
what's  a  comin'.  Luck?  I  tell  you  thar's  luck  and 
lots  of  luck  all  around  every  day.  Most  of  it  bad 
luck,  too.  That  was  the  first  streak  of  good  luck 
me  and  Bob  ever  had  since  we  was  born,  breakin' 
that  leg.  We've  got  twenty-seven  hundred  dollars 
to  show  for  that  leg  breakin'  scrape,  besides  the 
dogs  we  left  at  the  lake  to  sell. 

"Now  what  do  you  say  about  thar  bein'  a  cause 
for  everything?  What  caused  everything  to  turn 
our  way  all  at  once  when  everything  had  been  dead 
against  us  all  along?  Bad  luck  runs  in  our  family, 
too.  Fv  heard  Dad  say  he  had  bad  luck  all  his  life." 

"The  schoolmaster  and  myself  had  been  deeply  in- 
terested in  John's  narrative.  When  he  paused,  ap- 
parently for  a  reply,  Mr.  Grey  said : 

"It  would  be  difficult,  if  not  impossible,  for  me, 
not  knowing  all  the  circumstances  preceeding  and 
connected  with  the  story  you  have  related,  to  ac- 
count for  all  which  occurred  affecting  you  and  your 
brother.  But  I  was  thinking  the  buffalo  might  have 


258          STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

been  frightened  out  of  their  range  by  hunters  or 
a  storm,  and  becoming  lost,  Wandered  up  into  that 
cold  country,  not  knowing  where  they  were  going. 
They  might  have  sought  shelter  from  the  storm  you 
speak  of,  in  the  grove  and  about  the  cabin.  Pos- 
sibly you  shot  the  leaders  of  the  band  first  and 
the  rest,  accustomed  to  their  guidance,  lingered 
about  until  they  all  fell  victims  to  the  well-directed 
shots  of  your  deadly  Yager.  There  are  many  ways 
it  could  all  be  accounted  for  on  a  rational  ground 
without  doing  violence  to  our  reason  by  thinking  it 
was  caused  by  luck  or  mere  chance  or  that  it  hap- 
pened without  sufficient  cause.  While  I  deny  that 
there  is  any  such  thing  as  luck,  as  it  is  understood 
by  uncultured  people,  I  do  not  wish  to  be  understood 
to  deny  the  existence  of  an  overruling  Providence 
which  watches  over  us  at  all  times  and  it  may  be 
this  Providence  aided  you  and  your  brother  in  your 
distress." 

"That's  it,"  said  John,  "I  thought  I'd  fetch  you 
afore  I  was  done  with  you.  It  don't  make  any  dif- 
ference to  me  whether  you  call  it  luck  or  Providence. 
If  it  want  for  them  big  words  of  your'n  it  would  be 
the  same  thing.  I  will  always  believe  them  buffalos 
would  never  a  left  the  range  they  Wus  born  in,  and 
cum  200  miles  north  to  git  killed,  if  Bob  hadnl 


WAS  IT  LUCK  OR  PROVIDENCE  259 

broke  his  leg,  and  that,  too,  when  Pimecan  wus  up 
to  the  very  highest  notch.  Good-night,  Grey,  I'm 
goin'  to  turn  in. 


BLUFFS  ABOVE  CATHLAMET,  WASH. 
FROM  A  WATER  COLOR  pv  CAPT.  CLEVELAND  ROCKWELL 


Buckskin's  Fight  With  the  Wolves. 


XIII. 

On  my  arrival  at  Walla  Walla,  I  met  my  teams 
and  again  loaded  them  for  Boise  City.  I  had  now 
business  interests  scattered  more  or  less  through- 
out the  mining  regions  of  Oregon  and  Idaho.  One 
of  these  required  a  journey  to  Idaho  City.  Not  rel- 
ishing so  long  a  stage  journey,  I  went  on  horseback. 
There  were  stations  along  the  route  where  one  could 
find  accommodations  which  removed  the  necessity 
of  camping  out,  and  rendered  the  journey  less 
laborious. 

At  Powder  river  I  fell  in  company  with  an  ac- 
quaintance by  the  name  of  Grier.  He  was  riding 
a  buckskin  colored  Mexican  pony,  a  very  handsome 
one,  which  I  could  not  but  admire.  As  we  rode 
along,  my  companion  told  me  of  some  battles  the 
pony  had  gone  through,  which  interested  me,  and  I 
think  are  worth  relating: 

What  was  known  thirty  years  ago  as  Central 
Ferry  was  some  eighteen  or  twenty  miles  above 


262          STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

Farewell  bend  on  Snake  river,  a  camp  so  well  re- 
membered by  those  who  crossed  the  plains  to  Ore- 
gon as  the  one  where  they  bid  farewell  to  the  river 
down  which  they  had  been  traveling  several  hun- 
dred miles.  They  saw  no  more  of  it  on  their  jour- 
ney except  after  its  waters  were  mingled  with  those 
of  the  great  Columbia,  west  of  the  Blue  mountains. 

At  the  time  of  which  we  write,  the  Snake  river 
valley  was  entirely  unsettled,  there  being  only  a 
few  stations  scattered  along  the  route  to  Boise  gold 
mines.  The  city  of  Wieser,  ten  miles  below,  and 
Payette  three,  and  Ontario  six  miles  above  on  the 
river,  as  seen  now,  had  no  existence,  not  even  in 
imagination.  The  coyote  and  jack  rabbit  then  bur- 
rowed on  the  sites  these  thriving  places  now  occupy. 

Central  Ferry  was  owned  by  two  brothers,  John 
and  Martin  Parton.  It  was  operated  by  Martin,  or 
as  he  was  more  familiarly  called,  Mart  and  Guy, 
John's  eldest  son.  The  great  rush  to  the  mines  made 
the  ferry  a  valuable  property,  but  the  deep  snows, 
which  fell  on  the  Blue  mountains  between  the  mines 
and  the  Columbia  river,  almost  closed  the  road  to 
travel  except  during  the  summer  and  early  fall 
months.  Those  who  kept  the  ferries  and  stations 
along  the  roads  to  the  mines  were,  therefore,  left 
almost  alone,  and  thrown  entirely  upon  their  own  re- 


BUCKSKIN'S  FIGHT  WITH  THE  WOLVES          263 

sources  for  amusement  during  the  winter  months. 
When  the  travel  ceased  for  the  winter  of  1863,  Mart 
and  Guy  remained  to  take  care  of  the  ferry.  Mart 
was  a  well-preserved  bachelor  of  35  or  40  years, 
and  Guy  was  a  handsome  boy  of  16.  They  had  a 
little  shanty  made  mostly  of  clap-boards  with  dirt 
piled  up  on  the  outside  to  keep  out  the  cold  winds. 
They  were  supplied  with  plenty  of  provisions  to  last 
them  until  the  travel  commenced  again,  and  looked 
forward  to  having  a  cozy  time,  the  monotony  of 
which  could  be  broken  at  any  time  by  shooting  at 
jack  rabbits  or  coyotes  with  now  and  then  a  shot 
at  an  antelope  or  grey  wolf. 

As  the  winter  holidays  approached,  there  came  a 
heavy  fall  of  snow,  covering  the  ground  to  the 
depth  of  two  feet  or  more.  The  weather  had  been 
intensely  cold,  but  our  bachelors  did  not  mind  that. 
They  had  an  immense  pile  of  sagebrush  stacked  in 
the  front  yard  for  fuel  and  easily  kept  warm.  The 
only  domestic  animal  near  them  was  an  old  pack- 
horse  which  had  been  turned  out  early  in  the  fall 
by  some  packers.  His  back  had  become  injured  by 
his  saddle,  and  being  old  and  worn  down  with  labor, 
they  had  turned  him  loose  to  live  or  die,  as  it  might 
happen.  Before  the  snow  fell  he  had  found  plenty 
of  good  grass  and  had  grown  strong  and  fat.  He  was 


264  STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

on  the  opposite  side  of  the  river  from  the  house  and 
frequently  came  down  to  the  ferry  landing,  looking 
for  company.  At  such  times  he  would  look  across 
at  the  house  and  neigh,  as  much  as  to  say,  "Come 
and  ferry  me  over.  I  am  lonesome  here  all  alone, 
and  the  winter  coming  on."  Sometimes  Guy,  out 
of  sympathy  with  his  loneliness,  would  take  the 
skiff  and  cross  the  river  to  see  old  Buckskin,  as  he 
was  called,  in  compliment  to  his  rich  tan  color. 

The  old  fellow  showed  almost  a  human  longing 
for  society,  and  would  follow  his  visitor  down  to  the 
water's  edge  and  look  at  his  frail  skiff,  as  much  as 
to  say,  "Why  did  you  not  bring  the  big  boat  over, 
then  I  could  have  gone  home  with  you."  But  he 
was  on  the  side  where  the  best  grass  was  found,  and 
so  was  left  alone. 

After  the  snow  fell,  nothing  was  seen  of  him 
for  many  days.  It  was  feared  he  had  fallen  a  prey 
to  the  large  timber  wolves  or  grey  wolves  which 
were  sometimes  seen  wading  through  the  snow,  hav- 
ing been  driven  by  its  greater  depth  in  the  hills  to 
seek  the  river  bottoms.  Guy  and  his  uncle  spent 
much  time  looking  with  a  glass  for  some  trace  of 
the  missing  pony.  At  last  he  was  seen  on  the  point 
of  a  hill  about  two  miles  distant.  He  was  standing 
up  to  his  knees  in  the  snow,  digging  away  industri- 


BUCKSKIN'S  FIGHT  WITH  THE  WOLVES         265 

ously  for  his  dinner.  With  one  forefoot  he  would 
make  about  fifteen  or  twenty  strokes,  making  the 
snow  fly  in  every  direction,  then  he  would  rest  that 
foot  by  using  the  other  one.  In  this  way  he  reached 
the  grass  and  satisfied  his  hunger.  Of  course,  it 
was  a  cold  diet,  bunch  grass  mixed  with  snow  morn- 
ing, noon  and  night,  but  he  seemed  to  understand 
that  was  his  only  chance  to  escape  starvation.  He 
could  be  seen  with  the  first  and  last  light  of  morn- 
ing and  evening  working  away.  He  would  gnaw  the 
grass  from  all  the  ground  he  had  bare  of  snow,  then 
he  would  clear  more.  As  time  went  on,  and  the 
deep  snow  continued,  he  became  quite  an  object  of 
interest,  as  the  bachelors  had  nothing  else  to  occupy 
their  minds.  They  spent  most  of  their  time  watch- 
ing Buckskin  dig  for  food. 

It  was  interesting  to  see  an  animal  adapting  itself 
so  quickly  and  intelligently  to  the  conditions  sur- 
rounding it.  He  had  been  reared  in  Western  Oregon, 
and  knew  nothing  about  such  deep  snows  as  now 
confronted  him.  Yet  he  soon  discovered  his  broad 
hoofs  could  be  used  for  other  purposes  than  merely 
to  walk  upon. 

One  day,  as  Guy  was  standing  in  the  yard  with 
the  glass  in  his  hand,  he  cried : 

"O,  Uncle  Mart!     Come  here  quick!     There's  a 


266          STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

lot  of  wolves  fighting  old  Buckskin.  Look!  Look! 
A  great  band  of  them." 

"How  can  I  see  him  without  the  glass?"  said  Mart. 

"Here!  Here!  Quick!  They  are  trying  to  pull 
him  down.  What  can  we  do?"  said  the  impulsive 
boy.  "I  wish  we  had  another  glass." 

"Don't  be  uneasy,"  said  Mart,  as  he  adjusted  the 
glass  to  his  eye  and  leveled  it  on  the  distant  pony, 
"the  wolves  are  getting  the  worst  of  it  so  far.  Old 
Buck  is  a  warrior.  He  is  knocking  and  kicking  them 
right  and  left.  I  believe  he  will  whip  them  all.  There 
are  but  four  there  that  I  can  see.  He  is  holding  them 
at  bay.  Now  he  turns  this  way  and  is  running. 
Moses!  How  he  runs!  I  believe  he  is  coming  for 
help.  He  can  outrun  the  wolves  in  the  deep  snow. 
It  only  comes  to  his  knees,  while  it  is  side  deep  to 
them.  But  don't  he  run !  Hurrah  for  Buck !  He  is 
coming  down  hill.  Now,  look!  Look!  How  he 
makes  the  snow  fly." 

"How  do  you  expect  me  to  look  at  him  two  miles 
off  while  you  have  the  glass,"  said  Guy. 

"That's  so.  Here  it  is.  I  do  wish  we  had  two 
here.  Take  it.  See  how  he  is  doing  on  the  flat." 

"Bounding  like  an  antelope,"  said  Guy.  "The 
wolves  are  away  behind.  Who  would  have  thought 


BUCKSKIN'S  FIGHT  WITH  THE  WOLVES      267 

the  old  fellow  had  so  much  mettle  in  him  as  that. 
He  is  a  race  horse  sure." 

Buckskin  made  straight  for  the  ferry.  When  he 
arrived  at  the  landing  the  wolves  were  nowhere  to 
be  seen,  though  they  arrived  a  few  moments  later. 

The  beleagured  horse  neighed  loudly  to  the  ferry- 
men, who  now  realized  they  were  powerless  to  help 
him  in  this,  his  hour  of  sorest  need.  The  river  was 
frozen  over,  except  a  channel  of  about  100  feet  in 
the  center.  The  skiff  had  accidentally  become  loos- 
ened from  the  bank  and  floated  off  some  time  before 
the  freeze  came,  and  the  ferryboat  was  fozen  fast  in 
the  bank.  The  river  was  too  wide  for  the  range 
of  a  rifle  at  this  place.  Buckskin  might  have  brought 
his  enemies  within  range  by  coming  out  on  the  ice 
near  the  channel,  but  he  was  afraid  to  do  this,  prob- 
laby  knowing  if  he  should  fall,  he  would  be  at  their 
mercy.  It  looked  as  if,  however  much  sympathy  was 
felt  for  him,  he  would  have  to  fight  the  unequal  battle 
alone.  Neighing  frequently  for  help,  he  selected  his 
position  near  the  bank  of  the  river  and  waited  the 
attack.  It  was  sharp  and  furious.  The  wolves  were 
hungry  and  determined  to  waste  as  little  time  in 
combat  as  possible.  Two  sprang  at  his  throat,  and 
two  tried  to  reach  his  haunches.  Neither  was  suc- 
cessful. With  his  ears  laid  flat  on  his  neck,  his 


268          STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

eyes  flashing,  and  with  his  teeth  bared  and  gleaming 
white  as  the  snow,  he  struck  down  those  in  front  and 
before  the  two  behind  could  fasten  on  him,  they 
were  sent  by  two  well-directed  licks,  rolling  in  the 
snow.  So  completely  were  they  cowed  they  did  not 
dare  to  attack  again,  but  after  maneuvering  some 
time  for  advantage,  without  success,  sneaked  away. 

Guy's  hat  went  high  in  the  air  when  he  saw  the 
result  of  the  battle.  The  horse  remained  two  days 
about  the  river  bank.  Being  pressed  for  food,  he 
again  sought  the  hills  for  grass.  He  remained  un- 
molested for  several  days,  when  he  was  again  seen 
making  for  the  ferry  with  another  pack  of  wolves 
at  his  heels.  This  time  there  were  no  less  than  a 
dozen,  and  it  looked  as  if  Buckskin's  last  moments 
were  approaching  very  fast. 

Mark  ran  out  on  the  ice  and  fired  at  the  wolves 
when  they  had  surrounded  their  victim  on  the  bank, 
but  the  distance  was  too  great  for  him  to  hit  them. 
The  report  of  the  gun,  however,  frightened  them  so 
they  did  not  attack,  but  sneaked  around  until  it  was 
dark,  when  the  noise  of  snorting  and  snapping  of 
teeth  told  Buck's  friends  that  battle  was  on  again. 
It  raged  with  more  or  less  fury  through  the  night» 

It  was  impossible  for  our  bachelors  to  go  to  rest 
while  the  old  horse  was  so  bravely  fighting  for  his 


BUCKSKIN'S  FIGHT  WITH  THE  WOLVES         269 

life.  A  fire  was  built  on  the  bank  and  guns  were 
fired  at  short  intervals  until  morning..  When  it 
came,  old  Buck  was  still  defiant,  yet  his  tireless  ene- 
mies still  beset  him. 

"What  shall  we  do,"  said  Guy.  "It  is  awful  to 
stay  here  and  not  aid  the  poor  old  fellow  when  he 
neighs  to  us  so  piteously.  He  almost  talks.  I  feel 
just  like  it  was  a  man  who  is  begging  us  to  help 
him.  Can't  we  cut  a  channel  through  the  ice  for 
the  ferryboat?" 

"That  would  be  impossible.  The  ice  has  drifted 
and  lodged  about  it  many  inches  thick,"  answered 
his  uncle. 

"Then  let  us  make  a  raft." 

"I  have  been  thinking  about  that,"  said  Mart, 
"but  we  have  nothing  with  which  to  make  it.  Our 
whole  house,  if  taken  down  and  made  into  a  raft, 
would  scarcely  float  us  and  we  would  freeze  to  death 
in  this  weather  before  we  could  build  it  up  again." 

"I'll  tell  you  what,"  said  Guy,  "there  are  two  large 
barrels  in  the  house.  They  would  float  one  of  us." 

"Yes,  but  one  of  them  is  full  of  old  rye  whisky, 
which  cost  $4  a  gallon,  and  there  is  nothing  in  which 
to  empty  it,"  said  Mart. 

"Let  us  pour  it  out,"  begged  Guy.    "We  can  put 


270          STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

some  of  it  in  the  water  bucket  and  camp  kettle,  and 
then  pour  it  back  when  we  are  done." 

"I  am  afraid  your  father  would  not  approve  of 
that,"  answered  Mart. 

"If  he  was  here  he  would.  I  know  him  too  well 
to  think  he  would  ever  let  a  horse  die  like  that. 
None  of  us  like  whisky.  What  does  he  want  with  it  ?" 

"It  belongs  to  the  man  at  Payette  station,  and  it 
is  here  because  he  has  not  yet  come  for  it,"  answered 
Mart.  "He  will  be  after  it  when  the  snow  melts  a 
little,  and  would  not  like  it  if  we  threw  it  out." 

Guy  had  again  taken  the  glass,  and  was  looking 
intently  at  the  battle.  He  could  plainly  see  the  old 
horse  was  being  worried  and  starved  to  death.  Blood 
showed  on  several  parts  of  his  body,  where  the 
wolves  had  torn  him  with  their  sharp  teeth.  All  at 
once  a  large  one  darted  from  the  pack,  and  missing 
the  horse's  throat,  fastened  on  his  shoulder.  Buck- 
skin seized  the  wolf  in  his  teeth,  and  tearing  him 
loose,  pressed  him  to  the  ground  and  struck  him 
again  and  again  furious  blows  with  his  forefeet  until 
he  lay  apparently  lifeless.  The  rest  attempted  to 
close  in,  but  the  courageous  horse  showed  such  a  de- 
termined and  hostile  front  that  they  paused,  afraid 
to  invoke  the  fate  of  their  comrade. 

Guy  could  endure  it  no  longer.  He  turned  to  his 
uncle,  with  his  face  streaming  with  tears.  "I  can't 


BUCKSKIN'S  FIGHT  WITH  THE  WOLVES         271 

stand  it  any  longer,  uncle.  You  and  father  prom- 
ised me  $50  a  month  to  help  run  the  ferry.  You  owe 
me  $150.  I  will  pay  for  that  whisky,  and  you  can 
take  it  out  of  my  wages,  and  I  want  that  barrel.  I 
am  going  over  the  river  to  help  old  Buck." 

Mart  was  a  noble-hearted,  impulsive  man,  whose 
own  heart  had  been  swelling  with  pity  for  the  fate 
of  the  brave  old  horse.  He  threw  both  arms  around 
the  boy  and  blurted  out :  "That's  just  like  you,  Guy. 
God  bless  you.  I  am  with  you.  We  will  save  old 
Buckskin  if  it  takes  all  the  ferry  is  worth  to  do  it. 
Now  run  and  rip  off  those  two  planks  fastened  to 
the  stanchions  of  the  ferryboat  while  I  get  the 
barrels." 

In  a  very  few  moments  the  two  large  barrels  were 
rolled  down  on  the  ice.  They  were  placed  about 
eight  feet  apart  and  lashed  securely  to  the  broad 
planks  Guy  brought  from  the  boat.  Then  they  had 
a  sled  and  boat  combined.  When  it  was  ready,  Mart 
said :  "Now  bring  both  rifles,  our  pistols,  and  plenty 
of  ammunition.  The  wolves  may  attack  us.  They 
are  very  hungry  or  they  would  not  be  so  bold." 

Mart  had  managed  to  save  most  of  the  whisky 
in  emptying  the  barrel.  The  cooking  vessels  were 
all  filled,  including  the  frying-pan  and  coffee  pot; 
and  last,  but  by  no  means  least,  a  pair  of  Mart's 


272          STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

huge  boots  did  good  service  in  holding  a  couple  of 
gallons  of  the  fiery  liquid. 

When  all  was  ready,  they  pushed  the  raft  ahead 
of  them  on  the  ice  until  they  came  to  the  channel. 
To  prevent  accidents  the  guns  were  tied  to  the  raft, 
then  the  novel  boat  was  launched.  The  barrels  were 
tightly  corked,  and  proved  quite  bouyant  enough  to 
bear  the  two  men.  With  clap-boards  for  paddles, 
they  soon  crossed  the  current  and  landed  safely  on 
the  ice. 

The  wolves  paid  but  little  attention  to  them.  They 
had  renewed  the  fight  with  greater  vigor  than  ever 
and  were  pressing  old  Buckskin  closer  and  closer. 
One  would  dart  from  the  pack,  snapping  at  him  as 
he  passed.  They  appeared  to  be  trying  to  get  him 
to  run,  but  were  careful  about  getting  in  reach  of 
his  heels  or  teeth.  More  than  once  he  was  seen  to 
seize  a  wolf  and  hurl  him  several  yards.  In  his 
battles  he  had  developed  a  kind  of  science  of  fight- 
ing. He  kept  near  the  bank,  never  allowing  his 
foes  to  get  behind  him.  When  he  found  it  necessary 
to  charge,  to  drive  them  back,  he  did  it  with  such 
vigor  as  to  drive  everything  before  him.  Then,  be- 
fore they  could  rally,  he  regained  his  place  and 
turned  a  solid  front  to  them.  Never  did  a  horse 


BUCKSKIN'S  FIGHT  WITH  THE  WOLVES        273 

show  more  courage  or  sagacity,  and  seldom,  if  ever, 
was  one  more  deeply  sympathized  with  than  he  was. 

As  the  two  rescuers  crept  up  to  the  bank,  to 
within  twenty  yards  of  the  combatants,  said  Mart, 
as  he  leveled  his  rifle. 

"Take  good  aim  and  get  ready  before  you  fire." 

Both  guns  rang  out  with  one  report,  and  two  of 
old  Buck's  foes  fell.  Then  with  pistols,  the  battle 
was  opened  in  earnest.  Crack!  Crack!  Crack! 
The  wolves  scampered  off,  leaving  four  of  their 
number  dead  on  the  field,  while  several  that  ran 
away  were  badly  wounded,  as  was  shown  by  the 
bloody  trail  they  left  behind  in  the  snow. 

Buckskin  was  nearly  as  much  surprised  at  his  de- 
liverance as  were  the  wolves  at  their  defeat.  He 
was  cruelly  gashed  in  many  places,  nearly  starved 
and  utterly  worn  out  with  fatigue  and  the  loss  of 
blood.  But  he  had  made  a  most  gallant  fight,  and 
was  looked  upon  as  quite  a  hero  by  his  rescuers. 

They  led  him  out  on  the  ice,  but  he,  who  had 
fought  so  bravely,  was  reluctant  to  try  a  bath  in  the 
cold  waters  of  the  swift  river.  He  was  coaxed  and 
pushed  into  the  channel,  led  across  behind  the  raft, 
and  pulled  out  on  the  ice,  on  the  other  shore.  The 
next  morning  his  two  friends  helped  him  to  break 
a  trail  through  the  snow  to  the  hills,  where  the 


274          STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

wind  had  blown  the  grass  bare,  and  left  him  with 
plenty  of  food  at  his  feet.  Soon  after  the  snow  dis- 
appeared and  spring  invited  the  wolves  back  to  their 
native  haunts  in  the  mountains.  When  the  flowers 
came  again  Buckskin  was  fat  and  sleek,  coming 
every  few  days  to  the  ferry  to  see  his  friends,  and 
to  look  for  company  of  his  own  kind.  He  was  quite 
a  handsome  pony,  but  through  his  shining,  glossy 
coat  could  be  seen  the  scars  of  his  many  wounds, 
mute  witnesses  of  the  terrible  conflict  through  which 
he  had  passed. 


A  Chance  Meeting  of  Old  Friends. 


XIV. 

At  Boise  City,  whom  should  I  meet  but  Thomas 
Miller,  my  old  friend  of  the  earlier  days,  the  days 
when  we  chased  old  Bob  around  the  cabins  on  the 
Santiam.  He  was  looking  fine,  and  was  evidently 
in  the  best  of  spirits,  and  I  gladly  listened  to  an  ac- 
count of  his  adventures  since  last  I  saw  him.  For 
several  years  all  his  efforts  had  been  failures;  as 
soon  as  he  would  accumulate  a  few  hundred  dollars 
he  would  invest  in  a  mining  claim,  which  never  paid. 
Then  he  would  work  at  his  trade  again  for  another 
start. 

The  spring  before  I  met  him  he  had  walked  from 
Walla  Walla  to  Boise,  over  200  miles,  carrying  a  few 
carpenter  tools  on  his  back.  He  had  an  adze,  a 
d  ax,  a  saw,  and  a  2-inch  auger.  At  Boise  City 
he  in  with  some  packers  who  had  an  extra  horse 
ana  c  him  ride,  for  he  concluded  to  go  on  to  Ban- 
nock City.  Some  distance  above  Boise  City  they 
cair '  to  a  creek — I  think  it  is  called  Reynolds  creek. 


276          STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

It  was  rather  deep  fording,  and  Thomas  did  not 
like  to  get  wet,  and  could  not  be  persuaded  to  ride 
across.  He  was  always  afraid  of  water  when  he 
was  with  me  in  '61.  He  would  never  ride  across  a 
stream  if  he  could  help  it,  and  when  we  encountered 
one  that  looked  like  it  would  reach  above  his  horse's 
knees,  he  would  drive  his  horse  after  me,  and  he 
would  follow  up  the  stream  on  foot  until  he  found 
a  foot-log  or  went  around  the  head  of  the  creek. 

Well,  he  turned  the  horse  loose  to  go  with  its 
owner,  and  he,  following  his  old  custom,  started  to 
find  a  foot-log.  Thinking  he  might  not  be  able  to 
overtake  his  new  acquaintances,  he  took  his  tools 
on  his  back  and  started  up  the  creek.  About  half 
a  mile  up  he  found  a  foot-log  across  the  creek,  a 
large  fir  tree  blown  down  by  the  wind.  He  walked 
across  in  perfect  safety. 

Then  he  was  stricken  almost  paralyzed  with  an 
idea.  He  laid  down  his  pack  and  walked  back  and 
forward  across  the  creek.  He  would  make  a  bridge. 
He  would  do  it,  sure.  Never  did  he  feel  so  certain 
of  a  paying  investment  before.  He  took  his  adze 
and  commenced  to  cut  off  the  top  of  the  log.  He  cut 
it  down  until  he  had  a  good,  almost  level,  walk  two 
feet  wide.  Then  he  got  out  his  great  auger  and 
bored  holes  on  each  side  of  the  walk.  Into  these 
he  put  stanchions,  spreading  them  out  at  the  top. 


A  CHANCE   MEETING  OF  OLD  FRIENDS          277 

Poles  for  a  railing  were  fastened  to  these,  and  he 
had  a  splendid  bridge  for  pack  animals. 

The  ford  below  was  already  very  deep,  and  the 
melting  snows  soon  made  it  too  deep  to  ford.  Of 
course,  loaded  animals  could  not  swim.  Thomas  cut 
a  trail  from  each  end  of  his  bridge  to  the  old  trail, 
and  the  thing  was  done.  He  had  some  provisions  in 
his  pack,  so  he  camped  at  the  root  of  his  toll  bridge 
and  began  to  take  in  toll.  The  travel  was  immense. 
Sometimes  300  or  400  pack  animals  crossed  in  a 
single  day.  At  first  he  charged  only  25  cents  a  head, 
but  as  he  gained  confidence,  he  increased  the  toll 
until  he  had  a  dollar  a  head  for  every  four-footed 
animal  that  crossed. 

He  split  boards  and  made  a  little  house,  and  gave 
meals  at  $1  a  plate.  In  short,  he  had  the  best  pay- 
ing business  within  1,000  miles.  When  the  creek 
went  down  so  it  could  be  forded  with  safety,  Thomas 
counted  his  gains  and  found  that  in  two  months' 
time  he  had  made  $6,000,  and  concluded  to  go  home. 
He  was  on  his  way  when  I  met  him,  and  I  rejoiced 
with  him  over  his  lucky  strike. 

Rejoiced  as  I  was,  I  could  not  but  feel  amused 
over  the  cause  of  his  prosperity.  A  trait  of  char- 
acter, or  as  we  would  call  it,  a  weakness,  a  cowardice 
about  crossing  water,  which  I  had  ridiculed  so  much, 
the  very  weakest  spot  in  the  man  from  a  frontier 


278          STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

standpoint,  had  been  the  sole  cause  of  his  discover- 
ing that  log  and  making  his  fortune.  I  concluded 
there  was  no  use  in  one's  forming  any  opinion  about 
the  probable  success  of  a  friend,  as  the  very  thing 
that  we  would  condemn  might  prove  of  the  most 
value.  In  the  economy  of  Nature,  I  suppose  there 
is  a  value  and  use  for  every  trait  of  human  char- 
acter. 

A  few  days  concluded  my  business  at  Bannock, 
and  I  again  returned  to  Boise  City.  What  was  my 
surprise  on  entering  the  hotel  to  see  Dave  Snell.  Of 
all  I  knew,  he  was  the  very  last  one  I  would  have 
thought  to  find  there.  I  had  supposed  him  to  be 
married  and  settled  down  for  life  on  his  farm.  As 
we  shook  hands,  I  saw  that  something  serious  had 
occurred,  and  as  soon  as  we  were  seated  together  I 
asked : 

"What  is  it,  Dave?    Something  has  happened." 

"Why,  hadn't  you  heard  my  wife  was  dead?  She 
died  the  very  day  I  met  you  here,  the  day  I  was  to 
start  home.  I  knew  nothing  of  it  until  I  reached 
The  Dalles.  I  have  not  been  home  at  all.  I  could 
not  go  back." 

"You  say  your  wife.  You  were  married  then 
before  you  came  up  here?" 

"No,  we  were  not  married,  but  it  is  all  the  same 
to  me.  But  I  am  all  right;  don't  look  so  sad  about 


A  CHANCE  MEETING  OF  OLD  FRIENDS         279 

it,  old  boy.  I  have  been  putting  in  the  time  rather 
lively  since  I  came  back.  I  just  came  into  town  from 
a  trip  across  Snake  river." 

"What  have  you  been  doing?"  I  asked,  hoping  to 
turn  the  channel  of  his  thoughts  away  from  the  sor- 
row that  I  knew  was  consuming  him.  His  "I'm  all 
right"  had  told  the  whole  story.  It  meant  to  me 
that  he  was  all  wrong,  or  was  very  unhappy.  I  re- 
peated my  question  before  he  answered: 

"O,  fighting  Indians  like  a  devil.  I  have  been  out 
after  the  red  rascals  with  Captain  Jeff  Stanifer 
twice,  and  had  great  times,  plenty  of  excitement,  and 
that  does  us  good,  you  know.  We  have  a  band  lo- 
cated now  on  the  head  of  Rennels  creek,  and  will 
go  and  stir  them  up  in  a  few  days." 

"Did  you  get  any  Indians  when  you  were  out?"  I 
asked. 

"O,  yes,  haven't  you  read  the  papers?  We  have 
been  cleaning  them  out  all  round,  and  haven't  lost 
a  man;  that  is,  not  when  we  went  out  after  them. 
We  lost  the  best  man  I  ever  saw  while  prospecting 
on  Boise  river  just  before  I  went  out  with  Jeff. 
That's  what  gave  me  a  notion  to  fight  Indians.  It's 
the  best  sport  I  ever  had.  I've  got  my  racer  yet, 
and  when  I  get  after  a  Snake  Indian  riding  a  spotted 
horse  he  had  just  as  well  say  his  prayers." 


280          STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

"Tell  me  some  of  your  adventures,"  I  urged. 
"Well,  I  might  tell  you  about  Jim,  or  Dandy  Jim, 
as  we  called  him." 


WHERE  THH  RIPPLING  WATER   FLOWS 


Dandy  Jim. 


xv. 


Dandy  was  the  handsomest  man  I  ever  saw.  Yes, 
the  most  perfect  specimen  of  the  genus  homo  I  have 
ever  met.  He  was  really  good  to  look  at.  Without 
an  ounce  of  superfluous  flesh,  he  weighed  180 
pounds,  and  stood  six  feet  as  straight  as  an  arrow. 
Besides  what  seemed  physical  perfection  he  had  a 
manner  and  disposition  so  engaging  that  friends 
flocked  to  him  wherever  he  went.  For  a  frontiers- 
man, he  was  particular  about  his  dress,  and  this 
had  caused  an  admiring  friend  to  call  him  Dandy 
Jim.  This  name  seemed  to  fit  him  so  well  that  no 
one  ever  thought  to  inquire  for  another  one.  He 
was  about  40  years  of  age,  and  as  far  as  we  knew, 
unmarried.  No  one  about  the  camp  had  ever  heard 
him  speak  of  any  relations  or  of  where  he  came 
from.  All  we  knew  was,  he  was  Dandy  Jim,  the 
best  rifle  or  pistol  shot,  and  the  best  all  around 
athlete  at  any  game  in  the  camp.  Of  course,  he 
was  popular.  He  was  also  known  to  be  dead  game, 


282          STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

and  an  Indian  fighter,  so  reckless  that  whenever  he 
went  out  with  the  boys  against  a  marauding  band, 
it  was  freely  predicted  he  would  never  return.  But 
in  spite  of  such  predictions,  time  after  time  he  did 
return  as  handsome,  neat  and  attractive  as  ever, 
and  covered  with  glory  from  his  daring  exploits. 

I  remember  one  peculiarity  about  him  which 
seemed  more  prominent  than  many  others  he  pos- 
sessed. He  always  wore  neckties.  Now,  neckties 
are  considered  a  superfluity  on  the  frontier.  I  don't 
mean  the  old-fashioned,  black  silk  handkerchiefs 
worn  to  keep  the  grey  flannel  shirt  collar  in  place, 
but  a  genuine  necktie  of  some  light,  flashy-colored 
stuff  at  least  twenty  years  ahead  of  its  time.  More- 
over they  were  always  clean.  No  matter  how  hard 
the  journey  might  be  nor  how  much  dust  was  en- 
countered, Jim's  ties  shone  out  resplendent,  and 
added  to  the  respectability  of  the  camp.  The  boys 
used  to  declare  they  believed  he  got  up  and  washed 
his  shirts  and  ties  in  the  night  while  they  were  all 
asleep.  If  from  our  point  of  view,  Jim  had  some 
little  follies,  they  appeared  rather  to  increase  his 
popularity  than  to  incur  anything  like  ridicule. 

Dandy  Jim  joined  our  party  of  seven  prospectors 
while  we  were  in  camp  about  ten  miles  northeast  of 
Idaho  City  (then  called  Bannock).  We  were  on  our 
way  to  the  headwaters  of  South  Boise,  and  were  all 


DANDY  JIM  283 

delighted  when  Jim  rode  into  camp  and  asked  to 
join  us.  We  were  going  into  the  Snake  Indian  coun- 
try, and  felt  a  little  shaky  about  it,  knowing  that 
small  parties  were  likely  to  be  attacked  at  any  time 
in  that  region.  Jim  was  well  mounted,  and  carried 
a  Henry  rifle,  one  of  the  first  repeaters  we  had  ever 
seen.  We  all  were  armed  with  muzzle  loading  rifles, 
but  carried  Colt's  revolvers.  Jim  had  not  been  in 
camp  an  hour  until  we  saw  another  horseman  rid- 
ing down  the  trail  toward  us.  At  first  we  only 
looked  at  the  horse,  a  splendid  Morgan  bay,  a  thor- 
oughbred without  a  doubt,  and  one  to  attract  at- 
tention anywhere.  The  rider  was  a  boy  about  14 
years  of  age,  and  looked  for  all  the  world  as  though 
he  had  just  escaped  from  a  bandbox.  There  was  not 
a  button  about  him  that  belonged  to  the  frontier. 
Jauntily  he  rode  his  spirited  horse;  a  picture  for 
a  painter.  How  he  ever  reached  our  camp  so  im- 
maculately clean  was  a  miracle.  There  wasn't  a  dust 
spot  upon  him  and  his  cheeks  were  as  rosy  and  deli- 
.cately  tinted  as  those  of  a  girl.  Everything  about 
him  was  as  elegantly  and  as  fancifully  gotten  up  as 
though  he  was  tricked  out  to  appear  in  a  circus  ring. 
His  weapons  were  in  keeping  with  the  rest;  a  silver 
mounted  repeating  rifle  was  slung  at  his  back,  and 
an  enamelled  leather  belt  supported  a  navy  Colt's 
pistol.  Jim  was  making  his  toilet  a  few  rods  be- 


284          STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

low  the  camp,  and  did  not  see  the  youngster  as  he 
rode  up,  but  the  rest  of  us  did  him  full  justice,  for- 
getting all  manners  as  we  stood  and  gazed  at  him 
as  at  something  not  mortal.  This  he  appeared  not 
to  notice,  but  lifted  his  cap  as  a  Chesterfield  might 
have  done,  and  in  a  clear,  sweet  voice,  said : 

"Good  evening,  gentlemen.  Is  Mr.  St.  Glair  in 
your  camp?" 

Receiving  a  negative  answer,  he  added : 

"The  postmaster  at  Bannock  told  me  he  was 
sometimes  called  Dandy  Jim." 

Just  then  Jim  came  up.  He  literally  pulled  the 
kid  from  his  saddle  and  took  him  in  his  arms. 

"O,  Roy,  Roy,  my  boy,  how  did  you  ever  get 
here?" 

A  dozen  questions  he  asked  without  waiting  for  an 
answer  to  any  of  them.  We  all  looked  upon  Jim  as 
rather  a  dry-eyed  man,  but  great  tears  were  rolling 
down  his  cheeks  as  he  embraced  the  boy  again  and 
again,  until  by  a  kind  of  sympathy  we  began  to  feel 
a  lump  in  our  throats  and  pretended  to  busy  our- 
selves with  the  camp  fixtures  and  not  to  notice  them. 

After  a  few  moments,  Jim  brushed  his  hand  across 
his  face,  and  said: 

"Boys,  this  is  my  son,  Roy  St.  Glair  from  Chi- 
cago. I  can't  tell  you  how  glad  I  am  to  see  him. 


DANDY  JIM  285 

He  is  my  only  child.  I  knew  him  in  a  moment,  al- 
though it  is  five  years  since  we  were  together." 

Some  way,  none  of  us  felt  like  asking  any  ques- 
tions, and  that  was  all  we  learned  about  them  at 
that  time,  though  little  by  little  we  came  to  know 
Roy's  mother  was  dead,  that  he  had  few  relatives, 
and  that  Jim  had  plenty  of  money  and  a  good  name 
back  in  the  great  city.  Why  he  had  left  all  to 
come  West  to  live  as  we  did,  we  could  not  under- 
stand. 

Ater  breakfast  next  morning,  Jim  said:  "Now, 
boys,  we  must  have  a  little  talk.  I  know  how  care- 
ful you  fellows  are  about  your  comrades  on  such 
a  trip  as  this,  and  how  necessary  it  is  that  every 
one  should  know  how  to  act  in  an  emergency.  Roy 
is  just  a  boy,  but  he  has  crossed  the  plains  and  come 
2,000  miles  to  find  me,  and  now  we  must  stay  to- 
gether. I  will  never  leave  him  again  if  I  can  help 
it.  I  have  no  one  but  him,  and  we  will  keep  the 
same  camp  hereafter.  If  you  think  he  will  be  in 
your  way  while  prospecting,  we  will  go  back  to 
Bannock." 

Now,  none  of  us  relished  the  idea  of  having  such 
a  boy  as  Roy  with  us,  but  none  wanted  to  give  up 
Jim,  so  we  agreed  and  insisted  that  the  boy  should 
go  along.  So,  nine  in  party,  we  set  out  on  our  trip 


286          STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

in  search  for  gold.  I  liked  Jim,  but  I  was  just  in 
love  with  Roy  from  the  first.  He  was  very  intelli- 
gent, and  was  well  educated  for  his  age,  but  knew 
nothing  about  our  mode  of  living.  Until  he  met 
us,  he  had  never  taken  a  meal  by  a  campfire  in  his 
life.  Many  of  his  attempts  to  assist  about  the  cook- 
ing were  amusing,  still  we  never  laughed  at  him,  and 
he  became  like  his  father — a  general  favorite.  Like 
him,  too,  he  seemed  never  to  get  his  clothes  soiled, 
and  we  had  two  wonders  in  camp  instead  of  one. 

Our  journey  led  through  the  mountains  across  the 
north  fork  of  Boise  river,  and  on  to  the  headwaters 
of  the  south  fork.  About  twenty  miles  north  of 
what  has  since  been  known  as  "Rocky  Bar"  dig- 
gings, we  found  a  favorable  looking  place,  and  made 
camp  to  prospect.  Knowing  we  might  be  surprised 
at  any  time  by  Indians,  we  selected  a  camp  easily 
defended,  and  felt  rather  secure  from  attack.  For 
four  or  five  days  we  prospected  around,  only  find- 
ing enough  gold  to  make  us  think  we  would  strike 
something  better.  Roy  kept  camp,  gathered  wood, 
attended  to  the  horses,  etc.,  while  we  sunk  holes  in 
the  neighboring  gulches.  We  had  concluded  to  move 
camp,  and  after  working  one  forenoon  about  a  mile 
away,  were  returning  along  an  open  ridge  when  we 
were  fired  upon  by  about  forty  Indians.  None  of  us 


DANDY  JIM  287 

were  hit,  but  turning  we  saw  them  charging  toward 
us  on  their  ponies,  and  yelling  like  devils.  We  all 
had  our  rifles,  but  without  waiting  to  return  the  fire 
we  ran  toward  camp,  about  half  a  mile  distant.  No 
more  shots  were  fired  for  a  time,  but  the  yelling 
grew  louder  as  our  pursuers  gained  upon  us.  Jim, 
the  fleetest  of  all,  ran  ahead,  and  called  to  us  to  do 
our  best.  We  did  not  need  this  advice,  for  picks, 
pans  and  shovels  were  left  behind,  and  each  man 
was  making  his  best  time  down  the  ridge.  Fright 
had  so  nearly  equalized  the  speed  of  all  but  Jim 
that  we  ran  together  like  a  herd  of  antelope  toward 
the  camp.  Ten  or  twelve  Indians  were  behind  us, 
but  the  rest  dashed  down  a  little  ridge  parallel  to 
ours,  the  two  being  separated  by  a  sharp  ravine  until 
near  our  camp,  where  the  ravine  flattened  out  so 
it  could  be  crossed  by  horsemen.  This  was  a 
maneuver  to  cut  us  off  from  the  protection  which  a 
bluff  almost  surrounding  the  camp  afforded,  and  we 
knew  we  had  no  show  unless  we  reached  cover  before 
the  Indians  intercepted  us.  The  Indians,  finding 
themselves  nearly  abreast  of  us,  drew  up  and  began 
firing  across  the  gulch.  I  saw  Jim  totter  and  fall. 
We  ran  to  him,  and  turned  upon  our  foes.  We  were 
excited  and  out  of  breath,  but  this  did  not  interfere 
with  our  aim,  and  three  ponies  were  left  without 


288          STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

riders  at  the  first  fire.  This  checked  the  advance, 
and  those  left  behind  us  scampered  back,  but  those 
across  the  gulch  rushed  their  ponies  down  into  it, 
dismounted  and  commenced  to  crawl  up  toward  us, 
keeping  covered  by  the  hill,  and  having  decidedly 
the  advantage.  They  would  raise  and  fire,  and  drop 
out  of  sight.  No  one  was  hit  by  this  fire,  and  we 
reloaded  our  rifles,  using  our  pistols  now  and  then 
to  keep  the  Indians  back.  Jim  called  me  to  him,  and 
I  saw  that  he  was  mortally  wounded.  Blood  was 
coming  from  his  mouth,  which  showed  the  ball  had 
struck  his  lungs.  He  was  lying  on  his  back,  and 
caught  me  by  the  knees  as  I  reached  him. 

"Run,"  he  said,  "for  the  camp.  You  can  whip 
them  there.  You  have  no  show  here.  Don't  mind 
me.  I  am  shot  through  both  lungs,  and  can't  live 
twenty  minutes.  I  have  no  earthly  show  to  live. 
Go,  for  God's  sake,  and  save  yourselves  and  take 
care  of  Roy." 

Just  then  a  shot  aimed  at  me  struck  him  on  the 
side  of  the  head.  He  stiffened  out,  and  feeling  sure 
he  was  done  for,  I  ran  again,  calling  to  the  boys 
that  Jim  was  dead.  When  we  reached  camp,  Roy, 
who  had  heard  the  firing,  was  standing  as  pale  as 
death,  holding  the  bridle  of  his  horse.  He  had 
brought  the  Morgan  to  camp  to  give  him  salt  or 


DANDY  JIM  289 

sugar,  as  was  his  custom,  and  now  stood  by  him 
paralyzed  by  his  first  emotions  in  danger.  As  we 
breathlessly  tumbled  below  the  bank  he  asked: 

"Where  is  father?" 

It  was  no  time  to  evade  the  question,  and  I  an- 
swered : 

"He  is  dead.  He  fell  on  the  ridge  a  quarter  of 
a  mile  above." 

"Do  you  know  he  was  dead?"  he  asked. 

"Yes.  I  stood  by  him.  He  was  shot  through  both 
lungs,  but  talked  to  me,  then  a  ball  passed  through 
his  head,  and  he  died  without  a  struggle." 

Just  then  we  heard  three  shots  in  rapid  succes- 
sion upon  the  ridge  where  Jim  fell. 

"That's  father's  Spencer,"  said  Roy.  "You 
cowards!" 

He  caught  up  his  rifle,  which  lay  near  him,  and 
with  a  bound  was  on  the  racer's  back.  The  spirited 
horse  needed  no  urging  as  he  was  reined  against  a 
bank  that  no  one  would  have  thought  a  horse  could 
climb.  Like  a  flash  he  gained  the  top,  and  was  rac- 
ing toward  where  the  firing  was  heard.  Knowing, 
as  did  the  boy,  that  Jim  was  not  dead,  but  was  fight- 
ing the  Indians  alone,  we  followed  as  fast  as  we 
could.  All  fear  was  gone.  We  ran  past  the  few 
Snakes  who  had  already  commenced  firing  on  the 


290          STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

camp.  The  crack  of  that  Spencer  rifle  which  told 
that  Jim  was  alive,  the  taunt  of  that  boy  whom  we 
all  loved,  and  the  terrible  courage  he  displayed  in 
rushing  to  die  with  his  father,  had  roused  every  soul 
and  nerved  each  heart  until  there  was  no  thought  of 
self  in  that  charge.  Before  we  were  half  way  Roy 
had  met  the  Indians,  and  we  could  hear  the  sharp 
crack  of  his  rifle  as  we  ran.  When  we  reached  him 
the  Morgan  was  down.  He  had  fallen  with  a  bullet 
in  his  forehead  just  as  he  reached  where  Jim  was 
surrounded  by  the  Indians.  Roy  stood  by  him  and 
fired  as  fast  as  he  could  work  his  repeater,  killing 
an  Indian  at  every  shot.  After  one  shot  from  our 
rifles  we  drew  our  pistols  and  charged  so  furiously 
that  what  was  left  of  the  band  took  flight  and  did 
not  fire  another  shot.  Just  as  we  charged,  I  saw  Roy 
fall.  When  we  came  back,  he  was  dying.  He  had 
six  shots  through  his  body,  and  he  never  spoke  after 
he  fell.  I  went  to  look  for  Jim.  He  was  lying  about 
twenty  yards  from  Roy.  As  I  came  up  he  turned 
his  face  to  me  and  said: 

"I  saw  Roy  fall.    Is  he  dead?" 

I  bowed  my  head  in  answer.  He  rose  to  his  feet 
as  lightly  as  though  he  was  not  hurt,  and  walked 
slowly  to  Where  Roy  lay.  He  laid  down  beside  him, 
and  took  his  dead  boy  in  his  arms.  The  effort  was 


DANDY  JIM  291 

his  last.  Without  a  word,  Dandy  Jim  was  gone. 
We  found  his  rifle  empty.  He  had  fired  his  last 
cartridge  before  the  boy  reached  him.  We  had 
little  difficulty  in  comprehending  all  that  had  taken 
place.  The  ball  that  struck  Jim  while  I  was  stand- 
ing by  him  had  not  penetrated  the  brain,  but  had 
glanced  along  the  side  of  the  head  and  only  stunned 
him  for  a  few  moments.  He  revived  just  as  the  In- 
dians came  up  to  take  his  scalp.  He  got  to  his  feet 
and  made  a  desperate  fight.  Three  dead  Indians  lay 
within  twenty  feet  of  where  he  had  fallen;  one  of 
them  must  have  been  killed  after  Jim's  gun  was 
empty,  for  he  had  not  been  shot,  but  his  skull  was 
broken  by  a  blow  with  the  gun,  then  Jim  had  re- 
ceived two  more  shots  and  had  fallen  again,  unable 
to  rise  until  his  last  effort,  when  he  learned  that  his 
boy  was  dead.  We  had  no  fear  of  another  attack, 
for  our  foes  had  paid  dearly  for  their  assault,  and  we 
knew  they  would  not  come  again  without  reinforce- 
ments. We  counted  twenty-two  dead  Indians  and 
six  horses  within  100  yards  of  where  Jim  fell,  be- 
sides the  line  of  retreat  showed  that  many  were 
wounded  who  ran  away. 

Of  our  crowd,  we  had  but  two  wounded,  and  they 
were  but  slight  flesh  wounds.  This  might  have  been 
considered  a  great  victory,  but  we  all  felt  dreadfully 


292          STORIES  OF  OLD  OREGON 

defeated.  The  terrible  mistake  we  made  in  leaving 
Jim  for  dead,  and  thereby  causing  Roy's  death  was 
not  to  be  easily  forgotten. 

Poor  Roy.  How  nobly  he  died,  and  what  heroic 
blood  was  oozing  into  the  sod  from  his  slender  form, 
iieared  delicately,  and  in  the  lap  of  luxury  and  re- 
finement, he  came  a  mere  child  to  meet  the  most  ter- 
rible ordeal  of  the  frontier,  and  put  to  shame  its 
boldest. 

When  it  was  all  over,  we  stood  and  wept  like  chil- 
dren, then  each  one  knelt  and  kissed  him  as  he  lay 
in  his  father's  arms.  We  did  not  disturb  their  last 
and  holiest  embrace,  but  laid  them  where  they  so 
nobly  fell  side  by  side  to  await  the  Resurrection 
Morn,  and  none  there  doubted  that  to  such  as  they, 
it  would  surely  come. 

We  buried  them  deep,  that  nothing  might  disturb 
their  slumber,  and  marked  the  spot  with  a  rugged 
slab  of  granite.  Old  Ike  Patton  managed  to  cut, 
with  the  point  of  a  pick,  on  its  surface,  "Dandy  Jim 
and  Son." 

As  we  turned  to  go,  he  said:  "I  hope  their  rich 
relations  won't  ever  come  to  take  them  back  to  Chi- 
cago." 

"Why?"  we  asked  in  a  breath. 

"Because  they  belong  to  Old  Oregon,  and  sich 
bones  as  them  don't  hurt  a  country  any,  I'm 
thinkin'." 


(By  courtesy  of  O.  R.  &  N.) 


SUNSET  ON  THE  PACIFIC 


t-V: 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  LOS  ANGELES 

THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below 


*    NOV 


WOV  08  198' 


-A 


3  1158 :  01048  2494 


PS 

5129 

YT12s 


